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Chap3!Z3Copyright No, 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 


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AN ITINERANT HOUSE 


AND OTHER STORIES 


V 


An Itinerant House 


AND OTHER STORIES 

/ 

EMMA FRANCES DAWSON 


ILLUSTRATIONS BY ERNEST C. PEIXOTTO 

1 




SAN FRANCISCO 

WILLIAM DOXEY 
1897 




Copyright 
William Doxey 
1896 


t 


THE MURDOCK PRESS 


Si 


% 


PREFACE 

The romance of “A Gracious Visitation,” and the 
“ prose poem “ In Silver Upon Purple ” are new. 

The other tales appear here by kind permission of 
the “Argonaut,” the “ Wasp,” the “ Overland,” and 
“Short Stories,” which gave a prize for “the best 
Queer etching ” to “ The Night Before the Wedding.” 

The dreams in “ Singed Moths ” are not fiction. 


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CONTENTS 

PAGE 

-An Itinerant House i 

-Singed Moths 33 

A Stray Reveler 75 

The Night Before the Wedding 91 

The Dramatic In My Destiny- 97 

A Gracious Visitation^ 141 

A Sworn Statement . . . 213 

“The Second Card Wins” 231 

In Silver Upon Purple 275 

-*“Are the Dead Dead?” 283 



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AN ITINERANT HOUSE. 




AN ITINERANT HOUSE. 


* ' Eternal longing with eternal pain, 

Want without hope, and memory saddening all. 

Ail congregated failure and despair 

Shall wander there through some old maze of wrong.” 

‘^His wife?'^ cried Felipa. 

‘‘Yes,” I answered, unwillingly; for until 
the steamer brought Mrs. Anson 1 believed in 
this Mexican woman^s right to that name. I 
felt sorry for the bright eyes and kind heart 
that had cheered Anson’s lodgers through 
weary months of early days in San Francisco. 

She burst into tears. None of us knew how 


2 


itinerant 


to comfort her. Dering spoke first: Beauty 
always wins friends.” 

Between her sobs she repeated one of the 
pithy sayings of her language: ‘Mt is as easy 
to find a lover as to keep a friend, but as hard 
to find a friend as to keep a lover.” 

‘‘Yes,” said Volz, “a new friendship is like 
a new string to your guitar — you are not sure 
what its tone may prove, nor how soon it may 
break.” 

“But at least its falsity is learned at once,” 
she sobbed. 

“Is it possible,” I asked, “that you had no 
suspicion ?” 

“None. He told me — ” She ended in a 
fresh gust of tears. 

“The old story,” muttered Dering. “Mar- 
ryatt’s skipper was right in thinking every- 
thing that once happened would come again 
somewhere.” 

Anson came. He had left the new-comer at 
the Niantic, on pretense of putting his house 
in order. Felipa turned on him before we 
could go. 

“ Is this true ? ” she cried. 

Without reply he went to the window and 
stood looking out. She sprang toward him, 
with rage distorting her face. 


Itinerant igonse. 


3 


‘‘Coward!” she screamed, in fierce scorn. 

Then she fell senseless. Two doctors were 
called. One said she was dead. The other, 
at first doubtful, vainly tried hot sealing-wax 
and other tests. After thirty-six hours her 
funeral was planned. Yet Dering, once medi- 
cal student, had seen an electric current used 
in such a case in Vienna, and wanted to try it. 
That night, he, Volz, and I offered to watch 
When all was still. Dering, who had smuggled 
in the simple things needed, began his weird 
work. 

“Is it not too late ? ” I asked. 

“Every corpse,” said he, “can be thus 
excited soon after death, for a brief time only, 
and but once. If the body is not lifeless, the 
electric current has power at any time.” 

Volz, too nervous to stay near, stood in the 
door open to the dark hall. It was a dreadful 
sight. The dead woman’s breast rose and fell; 
smiles and frowns flitted across her face. 

“The body begins to react finely,” cried 
Dering, making Volz open the windows, while 
I wrapped hot blankets round Felipa, and he 
instilled clear coffee and brandy. 

“It seems like sacrilege! Let her alone!” 
I exclaimed. “Better dead than alive!” 

“My God! say not that!” cried Volz; “the 


4 


Itinerant 


nerve which hears is last to die. She may 
know all we say.^’ 

‘‘Musical bosh!” I muttered. 

“ Perhaps not,” said Dering; “ in magnetic 
sleep that nerve can be roused.” 

The night seemed endless. The room 
gained an uncanny look, the macaws on the 
gaudy, old-fashioned wall-paper seemed flut- 
tering and changing places. Volz crouched in 
a heap near the door. Dering stood by Felipa, 
watching closely. I paced the shadowy room, 
looked at the gleam of the moon on the bay, 
listened to the soughing wind in the gum-trees 
mocking the sea, and tried to recall more 
cheerful scenes, but always bent under the 
weight of that fearful test going on beside me. 
Where was her soul? Beyond the stars, in 
the room with us, or “like trodden snowdrift 
melting in the dark?” Volz came behind, 
startling me by grasping my elbow. 

“Shall I not play?” he whispered. “Fa- 
miliar music is remembrance changed to sound 
— it brings the past as perfume does. Gypsy 
music in her ear would be like holding wild 
flowers to hei nostrils.” 

“Ask Dering,” I said; “he will know 
best.” 

I heard him urging Dering. 


Itinerant 


5 


‘‘She has gypsy blood,” he said; “their 
music will rouse her.” 

Dering unwillingly agreed. “ But nothing 
abrupt — begin low,” said he. 

Vaguely uneasy, I turned to object; but 
Volz had gone for his violin. Far off arose a 
soft, wavering, sleepy strain, like a wind 
blowing over a field of poppies. He passed, 
in slow, dramatic style, through the hall, play- 
ing on the way. As he came in, oddly sus- 
tained notes trembled like sighs and sobs; 
these were by degrees subdued, though with 
spasmodic outbursts, amid a grand movement 
as of phantom shapes through cloud-land. One 
heart-rending phrase recurring as of one of the 
shadowy host striving to break loose, but 
beaten back by impalpable throngs, number- 
less grace-notes trailing their sparks like fire- 
works. No music of our intervals and our 
rhythms, but perplexing in its charm like a 
draught that maddens. Time, space, our very 
identities, were consumed in this white heat of 
sound. I held my breath. I caught his arm. 

“It is too bold and distracting,” I cried. 
“It is enough to kill us! Do you expect to 
torment her back? How can it affect us so?” 

“Because,” he answered, laying down his 
violin and wiping his brow, “in the gypsy 


6 


Itinerant i^onse. 


minor scale the fourth and seventh are aug- 
mented. The sixth is diminished. The fre- 
quent augmentation of the fourth makes that 
sense of unrest.” 

“Bah! Technical terms make it no 
plainer,” I said, returning to the window. 

He played a whispered, merry discordance, 
resolving into click of castanets, laugh, and 
dance of a gypsy camp. Out of the whirl of 
flying steps and tremolo of tambourines rose a 
tender voice, asking, denying, sighing, implor- 
ing, passing into an over-ruling, long-drawn 
call that vibrated in widening rings to reach 
the farthest horizon — nay, beyond land or 
sea, “east of the sun, west of the moon.” 
With a rush returned the wild jollity of men’s 
bass laughter, women’s shrill reply, the stir of 
the gypsy camp. This dropped behind vague, 
rolling measures of clouds and chaos, where to 
and fro floated grotesque goblins of grace-notes 
like the fancies of a madman; struggling, ris- 
ing, falling, vain-reaching strains; fierce cries 
like commands. The music seemed another 
vital essence thrilling us with its own emotion. 

“No more, no more!” I cried, half gasping, 
and grasping Volz’s arm. “What is it, Der- 
ing?” 

He had staggered from the bed and was try- 








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Stinmint igonsc. 


7 


ing to see his watch. *‘It is just forty-four 
hours!” he said, pointing to Felipa. 

Her eyes were open I We were alarmed as 
if doing wrong and silently watched her. Fif- 
teen minutes later her lips formed one word: 

Idiots 1” 

Half an hour after she flung the violin from 
bed to floor, but would not speak. People 
began to stir about the house. The prosaic 
sounds jarred on our strained nerves. We 
felt brought from another sphere. Volz and I 
were going, but Felipa’s upraised hand kept 
us. She sat up, looking a ghastly vision. 
Turning first toward me she quoted my 
words : 

‘Better dead than alive 1^ True. You knew 
I would be glad to die. What right had you 
to bring me back? God’s curses on you! I 
was dead. Then came agony. I heard your 
voices. I thought we were all in hell. Then 
I found how by your evil cunning I was to be 
forced to live. It was like an awful night- 
mare. I shall not forget you, nor you me. 
These very walls shall remember — here, 
where I have been so tortured no one shall 
have peace ! Fools ! Leave me ! Never come 
in this room again !” 

We went, all talking at once. Dering angry 


8 


Itinerant i^onse. 


at her mood; Volz, sorry he had not reached 
a soothing pianissimo passage; I, owning we 
had no right to make the test. We saw her 
but once more, when with a threatening nod 
toward us she left the house. 

From that time a gloom settled over the 
place. Mrs. Anson proved a hard-faced, cold- 
hearted, Cape Cod woman, a scold and 
drudge, who hated us as much as we disliked 
her. Home-sick and unhappy, she soon went 
East and died. Within a year, Anson was 
found dead where he had gone hunting in the 
Saucelito woods, supposed a suicide; Dering 
was hung by the Vigilantes, and the rest were 
scattered on the four winds. Volz and I were 
last to go. The night before we sailed, he for 
Australia, I for New York, he said: 

I am sorry for those who come after us in 
this house.’' 

“ Not knowing of any tragedy here,” I said, 

they will not feel its influence.” 

They must feel it,” he insisted; *Mt is 
written in the Proverbs, *■ Evil shall not depart 
from his house.’ ” 

Some years later, I was among passengers 
embarking at New York for California, when 
there was a cry of ** Man overboard !” In the 
confusion of his rescue, among heartless and 


itinerant fotisc. 


9 


pitiful talk, I overheard one man declare that 
the drowned might be revived. 

Oh, yes!” cried a well-known voice 
behind me. ‘*But they might not thank 
you.” 

I turned — to find Volz! He was coming out 
with Wynne, the actor. Enjoying our com- 
radeship on the voyage, on reaching San Fran- 
cisco we took rooms together, on Bush Street, 
in an old house with a large garden. Volz 
became leader of the orchestra, and Wynne, 
leading man at the same theatre. Lest my 
folks, a Maine deacon’s family, should think 
I was on the road to ruin, I told in letters 
home only of the city missionary in the 
house. 

Volz was hard worked. Wynne was not 
much liked. My business went wrong. It 
rained for many weeks; to this we laid the 
discomfort that grew to weigh on us. Volz 
wreaked his sense of it on his violin, adding 
to the torment of Wynne and myself, for to 
lonesome anxious souls *'the demon in music” 
shows horns and cloven foot in the trying 
sounds of practice. One Sunday Volz played 
the “Witches Dance,” the “Dream,” and 
“ The long, long weary day.” 

“I can bear it no longer!” said Wynne. 


lO 


Itinerant igonse. 


‘‘ I feel like the haunted Matthias in * The 
Bells.’ If I could feel so when acting such 
parts, it would make my fortune. But 1 feel 
it only here.” 

“I think,” said Volz, ‘Mt is the gloria 
fonda bush near the window; the scent is too 
strong.” He dashed off Strauss’ fretful, con- 
flicting ‘‘Hurry and Delay.” 

“There, there! It is too much,” said I. 
“ You express my feelings.” 

He looked doubtful. “ Put it in words,” 
said he. 

“How can 1.^^” 1 said. “When our firm 
sent me abroad, I went sight-seeing among old 
palaces, whose Gobelin tapestries framed in 
their walls were faded to gray phantoms of 
pictures, but out of some the thrilling eyes fol- 
lowed me till 1 could not stay in their range. 
My feeling here is the uneasy one of being 
watched.” 

“Hal” said Volz. “You remind me of 
Heine, when he wrote from Livorno. He 
knew no Italian, but the old palaces whispered 
secrets unheard by day. The moon was inter- 
preter, knew the lapidary style, translated to 
dialect of his heart.” 

“ ‘ Strange effects after the moon,’ ” mused 
Wynne. “ That gives new meaning to Kent’s 


%n Itinerant igonoe. 


II 


threat: * Til make a sop o* the moonshine of 
you!”^ 

Volz went on : ‘‘ Heine wrote : * The stones 
here speak to me, and I know their mute lan- 
guage. Also, they seem deeply to feel what 
I think. So a broken column of the old Roman 
times, an old tower of Lombardy, a weather- 
beaten Gothic piece of a pillar understands 
me well. But I am a ruin myself, wandering 
among ruins.* ** 

“Perhaps, like Poe’s hero,” said I, “‘I 
have imbibed shadows of fallen columns at 
Balbec, and Tadmor, and Persepolis, until my 
very soul has become a ruin.* ** 

“But I, too,** said Wynne, “feel the unrest 
of Tannhauser: 

‘Alas ! what seek I here, or anywhere, 

Whose way of life is like the crumbled stair 
That winds and winds about a ruined tower, 

And leads no whither.* ” 

“lam oppressed,’* Volz owned, “ as if some 
one in my presence was suffering deeply.” 

“ I feel,” said Wynne, “ as if the scene was 
not set right for the performance now going 
on. There is a hitch and drag somewhere — 
scene-shifters on a strike. Happy ar^ you 
poets and musicians, who can express what is 
vague.” 


12 


Jtinerant fonse. 


Volz laughed. in Liszt’s oratorio of 

‘Christus,’” said he, “where a sharp, ear- 
piercing sostenuto on the piccolo-flute shows 
the shining of the star of Bethlehem.” He 
turned to me. “Schubert’s ‘Wanderer’ 
always recalls to me a house you and I know 
to be under a ban.” 

“ Haunted?” asked Wynne. “ Of all spec- 
ulative theories, St. Martin’s sends the most 
cold thrills up one’s back. He said none of 
the dead come back, but some stay.” 

“What we Germans call gebannt — tied to 
one spot,” said Volz. “ But this is no ghost, 
only a proof of what a German psychologist 
holds, that the magnetic man is a spirit.” 

“Go on, ‘and tell quaint lies’ — I like 
them,” said Wynne. 

I told in brief outline, with no names, the 
tale Volz and I knew, while we strolled to 
Telegraph Hill, passing five streets blocked by 
the roving houses common to San Francisco. 

Wynne said: “ They seem to have minds 
of their own, with their entrances and exits in 
a moving drama.” 

“Sort of ‘Poor Jo’s,”’ said I. 

“ Castles in chess,” said Volz. 

“lo-like,” said Wynne, “with a gad in 
their hearts that forever drives them on.” 


Itinerant ^nnse. 


13 


A few foreign sailors lounged on the hill top, 
looking at the view. The wind blew such a 
gale we did not stay. The steps we had 
known, cut in the side, were gone. Where 
the old house used to be, goats were browsing. 

“Perchance we do inhabit it but now,” 
mockingly cried Wynne; “ methinks it must 
be so.” 

“ Then,” said Volz, thoughtfully, “ it might 
be what Germans call ‘far-working’ — acted 
in distance — that affects us.” 

“What do you mean?” I asked. “ Do you 
know anything of her now?” 

“ I know she went to Mexico,” said he; 
“ that is all.” 

“What is ‘ far- working? ’ ” asked Wynne. 
“ If I could act in the distance, and here too — 
‘ what larks !’ ” 

“Yes — ‘if,” said I. “Think how all our 
lives turn on that pivot. Suppose Hawthorne’s 
offer to join Wilkes’ exploring expedition had 
been taken !” 

“Only to wills that know no ‘if’ is ‘far- 
working’ possible,” said Volz. “Substance 
or space can no more hinder this force than 
the one of mineral magnetism. Passavent 
joins it with pictures falling, or watches stop- 
ping at the time of a death. In sleep-walking,. 


14 


Stinerant ^ouae. 


some kinds of illness, or nearness of death, the 
nervous ether is not so closely allied to its 
material conductors, the nerves, and may be 
loosened to act from afar, the surest where 
blood or feeling makes attraction or repulsion.” 

Wynne in the two voices of the play 
repeated : 

“ Victor.— W here is the gentleman? 

CHISPE.— As the old song says: 

* His body is in Segovia, 

His soul is in Madrid.’ ” 

We could learn about the house we were in 
only that five families had moved in and out 
during the last year. Wynne resolved to 
shake off the gloom that wrapped us. In 
struggles to defy it, he on the strength of a 
thousand-dollar benefit, made one payment on 
the house and began repairs. 

On an off-night he was vainly trying to 
study a new part. Volz advised the relief to 
his nerves of reciting the dream scene from 
‘‘ The Bells,” reminding him he had compared 
it with his restlessness there. Wynne denied 
it. 

“Yes,” said Volz, “where the mesmerizer 
forces Matthias to confess.” 

But Wynne refused, as if vexed, till Volz 
offered to show in music his own mood, and I 


Itinerant i^onse. 


15 


agreed to read some rhymes about mine. Volz 
was long tuning his violin. 

I feel,’^ he said, ‘‘as if the passers-by 
would hear a secret. Music is such a subtle 
expression of emotion — like flower-odor rolls 
far and affects the stranger. Hearken! In 
Heine’s ‘Reisebilder,’ as the cross was thrown 
ringing on the banquet table of the gods, they 
grew dumb and pale, and even paler till they 
melted in mist. So shall you at the long- 
drawn wail of my violin grow breathless, and 
fade from each other’s sight.” 

The music closed round us, and we waited 
in its deep solitude. One brief, sad phrase 
fell from airy heights to lowest depths into a 
sea of sound, whose harmonious eddies as 
they widened breathed of passion and pain, 
now swooning, now reviving, with odd pauses 
and sighs that rose to cries of despair, but the 
tormenting first strain recurring fainter and 
fainter, as if drowning, drowning, drowned — 
yet floating back for repeated last plaint, as if 
not to be quelled, and closing, as it began, the 
whole. 

As I read the name of my verses, Volz mur- 
mured: Les Nuits Blanches, No. 4. Stephen 
Heller.” 


i6 


itinerant 


SLEEPLESS NIGHTS. 

Against the garden’s mossy paling 
I lean, and wish the night away, 

Whose faint, unequal shadows trailing 
Seem but a dream of those of day. 

Sleep burdens blossom, bud, and leaf. 

My soul alone aspires, dilates. 

Yearns to forget its care and grief — 

No bath of sleep its pain abates. 

How dread these dreams of wide-eyed nights !. 

What is, and is not, both I rue. 

My wild thoughts fly like wand’ring kites. 

No peace falls with this balmy dew. 

Through slumb’rous stillness, scarcely stirred 
By sudden trembles, as when shifts 
O’er placid pool some skimming bird. 

Its Lethean bowl a poppy lifts. 

If one deep draught my doubts could solve,. 

The world might bubble down its brim. 

Like Cleopatra’s pearl dissolve. 

With all my dreams within its rim. 

What should 1 know but calm repose?' 

How feel, recalling this lost sphere? 

Alas ! the fabled poppy shows 
Upon its bleeding heart — a tear! 

Wynne unwillingly began to recite: 
fear nothing, but dreams are dreams — ”’ 

He stammered, could not go on, and fell to^ 
the floor. We got him to bed. He never 


Itinerant 


17 


spoke sanely after. His wild fancies appalled 
us watching him all night. 

‘‘Avaunt Sathanas! That’s not my cue,” 
he muttered. “A full house to-night. How 
could Talma forget how the crowd looked, and 
fancy it a pack of skeletons? Tell Volz to 
keep the violins playing through this scene, it 
works me up as well as thrills the audience. 
Oh, what tiresome nights I have lately, 
always dreaming of scenes where rival women 
move, as in ‘Court and Stage,’ where, all 
masked, the king makes love to Frances 
Stewart before the queen’s face ! How do I 
try to cure it? ‘And being thus frighted, 
swear a prayer or two and sleep again.’ 
Madame, you’re late; you’ve too little rouge; 
you’ll look ghastly. We’re not called yet; 
let’s rehearse our scene. Now, then, I enter 
left, pass to the window. You cry ‘is this 
true?’ and faint. All crowd about. Quick 
curtain.” 

Volz and I looked at each other. 

“Can our magnetism make his senses so 
sharp that he knows what is in our minds?” 
he asked me. 

“Nonsense!” I said. “Memory, laudanum, 
and whisky.” 

“There,” Wynne went on, “the orchestra 


1 8 Itinerant ^ouse. 


is stopping. They Ve rung up the curtain. 
Don’t hold me. The stage waits, yet how 
can I go outside my door to step on dead 
bodies ? Street and sidewalk are knee-deep 
with them. They rise and curse me for dis- 
turbing them. I lift my cane to strike. It 
turns to a snake, whose slimy body writhes in 
my hand. Trying to hold it from biting me, 
my nails cut my palm till blood streams to 
drown the snake.” 

He awed us not alone from having no con- 
trol of his thoughts, but because there came 
now and then a strange influx of emotion as if 
other souls passed in and out of his body. 

*Ms this hell ?” he groaned. ‘^What blank 
darkness ! Where am I ? What is that infer- 
nal music haunting me through all space ? If 
I could only escape it I need not go back to 
earth — to that room where I feel choked, 
where the very wall paper frets me with its 
flaunting birds flying to and fro, mocking my 
fettered state. ^ Here, here in the very den of 
the wolf!’ Hallo, Benvolio, call-boy’s hunt- 
ing you. Romeo ’s gone on. 

‘ See where he steals — 

Locked in some gloomy covert under key 

Of cautionary silence, with his arms 

Threaded, like these cross-boughs, in sorrow’s knot.* 


%n Itinerant fonse. 


19 


What is this dread that weighs like a night- 
mare ? * I do not fear ; like Macbeth, I only 

inhabit trembling/ * For one of them — she is 
in hell already, and burns, poor soul ! For the 
other’ — Ah! must I die here, alone in the 
woods, felled by a coward, Indian-like, from 
behind a tree ? None of the boys will know. 
* 1 just now come from a whole world of mad 
women that had almost — what, is she dead?’ 
Poor Felipal” 

‘‘Did you tell him her name?” I asked Volz. 

“No,” said he. “Can one man’s madness 
be another’s real life?” 

“Blood was spilt — the avenger’s wing hov- 
ered above my house,” raved Wynne. “What 
are these lights, hundreds of them — serpent’s 
eyes? Is it the audience — coiled, many- 
headed monster, following me round the world? 
Why do they hiss? I ’ve played this part a 
hundred times. ‘Taught by Rage, and Hun- 
ger, and Despair?’ Do they, full-fed, well- 
clothed, light-hearted, know how to judge me? 
’A plague on both your houses!’ What is 
that flame? Fire that consumes my vitals — 
spon-ta-neous combustion! It is then possible. 
Water! water!” 

The doctor said there had been some great 
strain on Wynne’s mind. He sank fast. 


20 


Itinerant ^onse. 


though we did all we could. Toward morning 
I turned to Volz with the words ; 

''He is dead.^’ 

The city missionary was passing the open 
door. He grimly muttered : 

" Better dead than alive !’' 

"My God! say not that!" cried Volz. 
" The nerve which hears is last to die. He 
may know " 

He faltered. We stood aghast. The room 
grew suddenly familiar. I tore off a strip 
of the gray tint on the walls. Under it 
we found the old paper with its bright 
macaws. 

"Ah, ha!" Volz said; "will you now deny 
my theory of 'far- working?^ " 

Dazed, I could barely murmur: "Then 
people can be affected by it!" 

" Certainly," said he, "as rubbed glasses 
gain electric power." 

Within a week we sailed — he for Brazil, I 
for New York. 

Several years after, at Sacramento, Arne, 
an artist 1 had known abroad, found me on the 
overland train, and on reaching San Francisco 
urged me to go where he lodged. 

" I am low-spirited here," he said; " I don^t 
know why." 


Stini^rant ipousc. 


21 


I stopped short on the crowded wharf. 
‘‘Where do you live?” I asked. 

“ Far up Market Street,” said he. 

“ What sort of a house?” I insisted. 

“ Oh — nothing modern — over a store,” he 
answered. 

Reassured, I went with him. He lived in a 
jumble of easels, portfolios, paint, canvas, bits 
of statuary, casts, carvings, foils, red curtains, 
Chinese goatskins, woodcuts, photographs, 
sketches, and unfinished pictures. On the 
wall hung a scene from “ The Wandering 
Jew,” as we saw it at the Adelphi, in London, 
where in the Arctic regions he sees visions 
foreshadowing the future of his race. Under 
it was quoted : 

“All in my mind is confused, nor can I 

dissever 

The mould of the visible world from the shape of my 
thought in me— 

The Inward and Outward are fused, and through them 
murmur forever 

The sorrow whose sound is the wind and the roar of 
the limitless sea.” 

“Do you remember,” Arne asked, “when 
we saw that play? Both younger and more 
hopeful. How has the world used you? As 
for me, I have done nothing since I came here 


22 


Itinerant iponse. 


but that sketch, finished months ago. I have 
not lost ambition, but I feel fettered.’’ 

‘‘Absinthe? — opium? — tobacco?” I hinted. 

‘‘Neither,” he answered. “ Mry to work, 
but visions, widely different from what I will, 
crowd on me, as on the Jew in the play. ■ Not 
the unconscious brain action all thinkers know, 
but a dictation from without. No rush of cre- 
ative impulses, but a dragging sense of some- 
thing else I ought to paint.” 

“Briefly,” I said, “you are a ‘Haunted 
Man.’ ” 

“ Haunted by a willful design,” said he. 
“ I feel as if something had happened some- 
where which I must show,” 

“ What is it like?” I asked. 

“ I wish I could tell you,” he replied. “ But 
only odd bits change places, like looking in 
a kaleidoscope; yet all cluster around one 
centre.” 

One day, looking over his portfolios, I found 
an old Temple Bar, which he said he kept for 
this passage — which he read to me — from T. 
A. Trollope’s “Artist’s Tragedy:” 

“ The old walls and ceilings and floors must be sat- 
urated with the exhalations of human emotions! 
These lintels, doorways, and stairs have become, by 
long use and homeliness, dear to human hearts, and 


Itinerant igonse. 


23 


have become so intimately blended a portion of the 
mental furniture of human lives, that they have con- 
tributed their part to the formation of human char- 
acters. Such facts and considerations have gone to 
the fashioning of the mental habitudes of all of us. If 
all could have been recorded! If emotion had the 
property of photographing itself on the surfaces of the 
walls which had witnessed it 1 Even if only passion, 
when translated into acts, could have done so 1 Ah, 
what palimpsests! What deciphering of tangled 
records ! What skillful separation of successive 
layers of ‘ passionography !’ ” 

** I know a room,^^ said Arne, ‘‘thronged 
with acts that elbow me from my work and 
fill me with unrest.” 

I looked at him in mute surprise. 

“ I suppose,” he went on, “ such things do 
not interest you.” 

“No — yes,” I stammered. “I have marked 
in traveling how lonely houses change their 
expression as you come near, pass, and leave 
them. Some frown, others smile. The Bible 
buildings had life of their own and human dis- 
eases; the priests cursed or blessed them as 
men.” 

“ Houses seem to remember,” said he. 
“ Some rooms oppress us with a sense of lives 
that have been lived in them.” 

“ That,” I said, “ is like Draper’s theory 


24 


Itinerant i^anse. 


of shadows on walls always staying. He 
shows how after a breath passes over a coin 
or key, its spectral outline remains for months 
after the substance is removed. But can the 
mist of circumstance sweeping over us make 
our vacant places hold any trace of us?’’ 

‘‘ Why not? Who can deny it? Why do 
you look at me so?” he asked. 

I could not tell him the sad tale. I hesi- 
tated; then said: I was thinking of Volz, a 
friend I had, who not only believed in what 
Bulwer calls ‘ a power akin to mesmerism and 
superior to it, once called Magic, and that it 
might reach over the dead, so far as their ex- 
perience on earth,’ but also in animal magne- 
tism from any distance.” 

Arne grew queerly excited. ‘‘ If Time and 
Space exist but in our thoughts, why should it 
not be true?” said he. ‘‘Macdonald’s lover 
cries, ‘ That which has been is, and the Past 
can never cease. She is mine, and I shall find 
her — what matters it when, or where, or 
how?”’ He sighed, “In Acapulco, a year 
ago, I saw a woman who has been before me 
ever since — the centre of the circling, chang- 
ing, crude fancies that trouble me.” 

“ Did you know her?” I asked. 

‘ No, nor anything about her, not even her 


Itinerant §onBc, 


25 


name. It is like a spell. I must paint her 
before anything else, but I cannot yet decide 
how. I feel sure she has played a tragic part 
in some life-drama.’* 

“ Swinburne’s queen of panthers,” I hinted. 

Yes. But I was not in love. Love I must 
forego. I am not a man with an income.” 

‘‘ I know you are not a nincompoop!” I 
said, always trying to change such themes by 
a jest. 1 could not tell him I knew a place 
which had the influence he talked of. I could 
not re-visit that house. 

Soon after he told me he had begun his 
picture, but would not show it. He com- 
plained that one figure kept its back toward 
him. He worked on it till he fell ill. Even 
then he hid it. ‘‘ Only a layer of passionog- 
raphy,” he said. 

I grew restless. I thought his mood affected 
mine. It was a torment as well as a puzzle to 
me that his whole talk should be of the influ- 
ence of houses, rooms, even personal property 
that had known other owners. Once I asked 
him if he had anything like the brown coat 
Sheridan swore drew ill-luck to him. 

Sometimes 1 think,” he answered, “it is 
this special brown paint artists prize which 
affects me. It is made from the best asphal- 


26 


itinerant §ome. 


turn, and that can be got only from Egyptian 
mummy-cloths. Very likely dust of the mum- 
mies is ground in it. I ought to feel their ill- 
will.^* 

One day I went to Saucelito. In the still 
woods I forgot my unrest till coming to the 
stream where, as I suddenly remembered, An- 
son was found dead, a dread took me which I 
tried to lose by putting into rhyme. Turning 
my pockets at night, I crumpled the page I 
had written on, and threw it on the floor. 

In uneasy sleep I dreamed I was again in 
Paris, not where I liked to recall being, but 
at ‘‘Bullier’s,’^ and in war-time. The bald, 
spectacled leader of the orchestra, leaning 
back, shamming sleep, while a dancing, stamp- 
ing, screaming crowd wave tri-colored flags, 
and call for the ‘‘Chant du Depart.” Three 
thousand voices in a rushing roar that makes 
the twenty thousand lights waver, in spas- 
modic but steady chorus : 

‘ ‘ Les departs — parts — parts ! 

Les departs — parts — parts ! 

Les departs — parts— parts I ” 

Roused, I supposed by passing rioters, I did 
not try to sleep again, but rose to write a letter 
for the early mail. As I struck a light I saw, 
smoothed out on the table, the wrinkled page I 


Itinerant 


27 


had cast aside. The ink was yet wet on two 
lines added to each verse. A chill crept over 
me as I read : 

FOREST MURMURS. 

Across the woodland bridge 1 pass, 

And sway its three long, narrow planks, 

To mark how gliding waters glass 
Bright blossoms doubled ranks on ranks ; 

And how through tangle of the ferns 
Floats incense from veiled flower-urns. 

What would the babbling brook reveal? 

What may these trembling depths conceal? 

Dread secret of the dense woods, held 
With restless shudders horror-spelled! 

How shift the shadows of the wood. 

As if it tossed in troubled sleep ! 

Strange whispers, vaguely understood, 

Above, below, around me creep ; 

While in the sombre-shadowed stream 
Great scarlet splashes far down gleam. 

The odd-reflected, stately shapes 
Of cardinals in crimson capes ; 

Not those — but spectral pools of blood 
That stain these sands through strongest flood! 

Like blare of trumpets through black nights — 

Or sunset clouds before a storm — 

Are these red phantom water-sprites 
That mock me with fantastic form ; 

With flitting of the last year’s bird 
Fled ripples that its low flight stirred — 


28 


Itinerant ^ ovlqc . 


How should these rushing waters learn 
Aught but the bend of this year’s fern ? 

The lonesome wood, with bated breath. 

Hints of a hidden blow — and death! 

I could not stay alone. I ran to Arne’s room. 
As I knocked, the falling of some light thing 
within made me think he was stirring. I went 
in. He sat in the moonlight, back to me before 
his easel. The picture on it might be the one 
he kept secret. I would not look. 1 went to 
his side and touched him. He had been dead 
for hours ! I turned the unseen canvas to the 
wall. 

Next day I packed and planned to go East. 
I paid the landlady not to send Arne’s body to 
the morgue, and watched it that night, when 
a sudden memory swept over me like a tidal 
wave. There was a likeness in the room to 
one where 1 had before watched the dead. Yes 
— there were the windows, there the doors — 
just here stood the bed, in the same spot I sat. 
What wildness was in the air of San Francisco ! 

To put such crazy thoughts to flight I would 
look at Arne’s last work. Yet I wavered, and 
more than once turned away after laying my 
hand on it. At last I snatched it, placed it on 
the easel and lighted the nearest gas-burner 
before looking at it. Then — great heavens! 


Itinerant t^onse. 


29. 


How had this vision come to Arne? It was 
the scene where Felipa cursed us. Every de- 
tail of the room reproduced, even the gay 
birds on the wall-paper, and her flower-pots. 
The figures and faces of Dering and Volz were 
true as hers, and in the figure with averted 
face which Arne had said kept its back to him, 
I knew — myself! What strange insight had 
he gained by looking at Felipa? It was like 
the man who trembled before the unknown 
portrait of the Marquise de Brinvilliers. 

How long I gazed at the picture I do not 
know. I heard, without heeding, the door- 
bell ring and steps along the hall. Voices. 
Some one looking at rooms. The landlady, 
saying this room was to let, but unwilling to 
show it, forced to own its last tenant lay there 
dead. This seemed no shock to the stranger. 

*‘Well,’’ said her shrill tones, *‘poor as he- 
was he’s better dead than alive!” 

The door opened as a well-known voice' 
cried: *‘My God! say not that! The nerve 
which hears is last to die — ” 

Volz stood before me! Awe-struck, we 
looked at each other in silence. Then he 
waved his hand to and fro before his eyes. 

*Ms this a dream?” he said. “There,” 
pointing to the bed; “you”— to me; “the 


30 


Itinerant fonse. 


same words — the very room ! Is it our 
fate ? ’ ’ 

I pointed to the picture and to Arne. ** The 
last work of this man, who thought it a fancy 
sketch ?” 

While Volz stood dumb and motionless be- 
fore it, the landlady spoke : 

“Then you know the place. Can you tell 
what ails it? There have been suicides in 
this room. No one prospers in the house. 
My cousin, who is a house-mover, warned me 
against taking it. He says before the store 
was put under it here it stood on Bush Street, 
and before that on Telegraph Hill.” 

Volz clutched my arm. “ It is ' The Flying 
Dutchman ^ of a house!” he cried, and drew 
me fast down stairs and out into a dense fog 
which made the world seem a tale that was 
told, blotting out all but our two slanting forms, 
bent as by what poor Wynne would have 
called “a blast from hell,” hurrying blindly, 
away. I heard the voice of Volz as if from 
afar : “ The magnetic man is a spirit 1” 


SINGED MOTHS. 


1 • 




^ • 


1 


SINGED MOTHS. 


In Yorkshire, England, night-moths are called souls. 


Poor moth I thy fate my own resembles — 
****** 

What gained we, little moth ? Thy ashes 
Thy one brief parting pang may show. 

And withering thoughts for soul that dashes 
From deep to deep are but a death more slow. 

~ Carlyle's Tragedy of the Night-Moth. 


KATHARINE’S DIARY. 

June 21 . — Waiting for Elizabeth to-night, 
Charlotte and 1 sat in silence, unbroken save 
by the slight sounds of our work. 

“ While I pay court to a new ‘one-eyed des- 
pot,’ I want to ask if you have thought that 
this is Midsummer Eve?” I asked at last, 
with a scornful laugh, but feeling more like 
crying, as I stopped the sewing-machine for a 
new needle. 

“No, is it?” Charlotte answered, with a 
long sigh, and soon looking up from her desk 
to add: “Now I have spoiled that sheet of 
legal-cap! You made me think of our lawn 
with colored lanterns, our lace dressed, wide 


33 


34 




Roman sashes, diamonds and whole pearls, the 
kind men and fond women, and instead of 
‘City and County of San Francisco, ss.,’ I 
wrote Strauss waltzes and strawberry-ices. 
How could you?’^ 

“Well,’’ said I, “I had been thinking all 
day of the change — our gloves and boots too 
shabby for daylight, hats years old, black silks 
that knew some of our old ‘ tea-fights ’ and 
have to be court-plastered like beaten pugil- 
ists, our dread to see things wear out or break 
because not sure of new ones, even what 
should pay car-fare kept for a loaf of bread.’’ 

“Our only caller,’’ said Charlotte, “the 
landlady for her rent. Neither time nor money 
for books or papers. Theatre, concert, sail, 
and drive, joys for us no more than if we were 
ghosts.’’ 

“Shunned,’’ said I, “except for insult, by 
those in our old rank of life, as if with our 
money went our culture, wit, sense, and 
purity.’’ 

“Innocent souls,’’ said Charlotte, “forced 
to toil fourteen or sixteen hours a day, while 
the vile wretch at San Quentin works eight 
or ten, and sleeps with no care for food or 
rent.’’ 

“A steady grind of small economies,’’ 1 




35 


went on, ‘‘that are both comic and cruel — a 
struggle for ten cents’ worth of flour, one 
candle, five cents’ worth of sugar, seventy- 
five-cent boots, and twenty-five-cent gloves.” 

“Forced to think,” said Charlotte, “of 
claims due the unyielding body, and forget 
there can be joys the spirit needs; that we 
ever knew sunrise parties on horseback, gar- 
den-shaded hammocks at noon, sea-sands at 
sunset, or serenades by moonlight.” 

“In San Francisco,” said I, “we know 
neither the fire-side glow thrown on our old 
silver-laden side-board in winter, nor the for- 
eign travel of our summers, nor the red and 
yellow woods of fall we saw from the marble- 
terrace overlooking our landscape garden, with 
its lake and Swiss cottage — where the trees 
looked as if seen through the stained windows 
of our great library.” 

“Outdoors,” said she, “we see only wind- 
blown dust or rain; indoors, we know our 
work, and an hysterical sort of good spirits.” 

“Our past in the East,” I said, “is gone 
like a dream; folks treat us as though with our 
lost money went our brains.” 

“Not all,” said she. 

“Only exceptions that prove the rule,” I 
answered 


36 


Singcb iHotl)©. 


After another hour of quiet, Charlotte lighted 
a fire, filled the tea-kettle, and spread the 
cloth. 

** We will have a party supper,” she said. 

Elizabeth will be tired and hungry. If we 
had flour and a bit of suet (I have nearly for- 
gotten what butter is), we could have some 
griddle cakes. If we had this or that, we 
could have the other. What will you have? 
— broiled chicken, custard pie, and citron 
cake?” 

‘‘Oyster soup, quail on toast, and an ome- 
lette soufifl6e,” I replied — 

‘ If wishes were horses, beggers might ride ; 

If wishes were fishes, we’d have some fried.’ ” 

“Perhaps Elizabeth will bring something,” 
said Charlotte, as she set a cup of milk and a 
five-cent loaf of bread on the table. “She 
was to get some sewing from the Wertley’s — 
they may give her some cake.” 

“Don’t!” I cried, it vexes my pride to take 
such gifts — yet 1 am so tired of potatoes and 
salt, and milk and water.” 

“And owing for the potatoes and milk,” 
said Charlotte, grimly; “even the five dollars 
Elizabeth will get for playing for the Wert- 
ley’s children’s party ought to go — in how 


0ingeb 


37 


many ways! — all to the grocer, or for rent, 
for coal, for milk, or to get dresses dyed, or 

O dear! it is after eleven; she must 

come soon. Ah ! here she is.” 

Elizabeth came up stairs, tired and out of 
breath, with two small jars, which she set on 
the table, saying: ‘‘More frill and no shirt! 
Pickles and jam the housekeeper gave me. 
Good soul, she didn’t know what a farce it 
was, that we had nothing to eat with them, 
that the scent of dinner in houses I passed go- 
ing there to-night made me feel ill.” ! 

We laughed, but our voices were full of 
tears. 

“In the children’s lessons, to-day,” said 
Elizabeth, “ we read (what I felt as they could 
not) about the pagan goddess of death, ‘ Hel’ 
— in the realm of the Cold Storm. Hunger 
is her table. Starvation her knife. Delay her 
man. Slowness her maid. Precipice her thresh- 
old, Care her bed, burning Anguish the hang- 
ings of her room.” 

“Oh, don’t!” I cried; “the water boils; 
come, we will play it is tea — but we must 
sweeten it with smiles, as we have no 
sugar.” 

“ No one came to see the room, I suppose,” 
said Elizabeth, as we gathered round the table. 


38 




though 1 answered the notice so quickly; 
nor any one to take lessons.” 

** No,” said Charlotte, “ nothing has hap- 
pened except that Biddy has sent us some coal 
and wood.” 

‘‘ Think of our old servant coming to own 
this house, and letting us the upper part — 
swelling round in a big fur cloak, and showing 
us charity! Bah!” 

Never mind,” said Charlotte, ‘‘her good 
heart gave her grace to say the fairies sent it. 
We are lucky to have such a friend — when I 
have got word that, as some one will do the 
work cheaper, this is the last of my copying.” 

We all sighed. 

“ Elizabeth,” said I, “ I thought Mrs. Wert- 
ley was to send some sewing by you.” 

“Mrs. Wertley,” said Elizabeth, “did not 
like it because 1 played something more than 
dance-music when asked to by one of her 
guests, and outshone her daughter. So I have 
lost my place as governess.” 

Charlotte and I groaned. 

“ Oh, Charlotte,” said Elizabeth, “haven't 
you got some verses to read to us to-night.^^” 

Charlotte searched her papers, and read : 


Singcb iHotljs. 


39 


“BETTER DAYS. 

“ What pathos sounds within the common phrase 
On careless tongues: ‘They have known better 
days ! ’ 

As if for them were dimmed this sun’s gold rays, 
The dazzling miracle of winter’s snow, 

The festal pomp of summer’s blossom show 
Were seen by them through veil of sombre haze. 

“ God help poor souls on whom that burden lays ! 
They walk through narrow, crooked, lonely ways. 
Look on their darkened life in sore amaze, 

To Care and Sorrow and Regret fast bound. 

To toil and moil in endless chain-gang round. 

And almost view the Past as madman’s craze. 

“ Rare is the soul that sympathy betrays. 

As if they lose all claim to blame or praise. 

Or from their poverty contagion strays. 

Chafed raw by rough and seamy side of life. 
They stagger, wounded, crippled, by the strife. 
And often lost within the novel maze. 

“ Of all the blessings that the soul portrays 
When, as the heart-sick and world- wearied prays. 
We shall some time see heaven’s glories blaze. 
Naught can surpass the certainty of this: 

That once within that sphere of perfect bliss. 

Our thoughts can never turn to ‘ better days ’ ! ” 

When Charlotte paused, Elizabeth was cry- 
ing, but I said: ‘‘We will have good times. 
You must not despair. If you do not marry, I 


40 


SingeJr 


will, /do not mean to dress St, Catharine’s 
hair in the next world, as the old saying has 
it that a maid must!” and I chanted the old 
prayer : 

“*A husband, Saint Catharine, 

A handsome one. Saint Catharine, 

A rich one. Saint Catharine, 

A nice one. Saint Catharine, 

And soouy Saint Catharine ! ’ ” 

** Position before money,” said Elizabeth. 

“Biddy would say love before money,” 
said Charlotte. 

“No,” said I, “money, money, money! 
Think — of our heartaches and headaches, not 
only the picturesque di life, but the comforts 
denied us, all for lack of money! I would 
marry the Devil if he were rich ! ” 

“ Oh, Katharine ! ” they cried. 

“I would! I would!” said I, striking my 
fist on the table. 

“ One might be tempted,” said Elizabeth to 
Charlotte, who nodded. 

“ There could be inducements,” said she. 

The clock struck twelve ; the house shook, 
and the windows jarred. 

“Was that a shock of earthquake?” Char- 
lotte asked. 

“ Only a blast of wind,” said Elizabeth. 


Singeb iHotl)©. 


41 


“ No,’' I said, ‘'there is some one knocking 
at the outside door/’ 

“ It is too late to open it,” said Charlotte. 

“ Nonsense ! ” I cried. “ Bright moonlight, 
and three of us ! Let us all go. If not Fate 
for one of us, we can be the three Fates for 
him!” 

They unwillingly followed me ; but, at the 
last moment, I shrank, and it was Elizabeth 
who opened the door. A man who did not 
look quite strange to us, stood on the steps. 

“ Pardon me,” he said, taking off his hat; 
“ I followed you from Mrs. Wertley’s, but did 
not start in time to overtake you. 1 heard you 
say you had a room to let. Can you excuse 
my coming at this untimely hour, and let me 
see it?” 

We looked at each other. It would not do 
to lose a chance of a lodger. We let him in. 

A true American, plain, thin, sharp-faced, 
alert, and confident. He wanted to avoid bad 
smells; he said he left his last quarters on 
that account. He took the room, paid a 
month’s rent, and said he would come in the 
morning. 

When he had gone, we took hands and 
danced round our table, spread with “Duke 
Humphrey’s dinner.” 


42 


Singeb iHotfjs. 


“ See what Midsummer Eve has brought 
us !” 1 cried. 

At that moment the front door blew open, 
a wild gust of wind tore through the house, 
and put out the light; and, as we felt round in 
the dark, Charlotte said : 

There was something uncanny about that 
man. 1 am sorry he is coming.” 

‘'So am I,” said Elizabeth; “but I thought 
I ought not to say so.” 

“1 feel the same,” I said; “but is it not as 
uncanny to be without money.?” 

And over a sputtering candle, burning blue, 
we all nodded at each other like so many 
doomed witches. 


CHARLOTTE’S DIARY. 

August ig , — It does not seem now that less 
than two months ago we were in despair. Mr. 
Orne’s taking the room, and the ease with 
which he helped us to work more fit for us, 
have been such relief. I have gone back to 
my pictures, and Elizabeth to her music. 
Katharine picked up in the street some money 
for which no owner could be found, that has 
paid half our debts. 

Our handsome, dark, Spanish-looking lodger. 


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Singcb illotljs. 


43 


who tells me he is a poor, devil-may-care 
artist, went with me up on our flat roof to- 
night, to see a fine sunset. Strangely far- 
sighted, more like eagle than man, he saw 
things out of the range of most people’s vis- 
ion, and told me of ships far at sea. The 
great cross on Lone Mountain stood out black 
against scarlet clouds, while above stretched 
shadowy shapes as of angels. 

*Mt reminds me,” I said, ‘^of an ecstasy of 
Saint Francis of Assisi, in a little chapel of 
Santa Croce in Milan — a cross standing up 
dark and strong in shade, a figure in friar’s 
robes borne up in the gloom, as if floating on 
it, his arms lifted to arms of some vision he 
sees.” 

He gave one of his odd, scornful laughs’. 
‘‘What could the vision tell him?” he asked. 

“The angels know all,” I said. 

“Not everything,” he answered; “there 
are three things they do not know.” 

“ What are they?” 

“The day of the Second Advent, men’s 
hearts, and the number of the elect. Then 
they have no tongues.” 

1 thought I must try to reform this stray- 
ing soul. “Don’t you remember your Bible?” 
I asked. 


44 


Singeir iHotl)©. 


I know all about Job, Jethro, and Balaam,’^ 
he answered; they studied sorcery/^ 

** This view changes like magic, I said; 
**all may be fog save where the sun rises a 
blood-red ball on its image in the bay, the two 
a huge pillar of fire, like sign and portent; or, 
sole rift at noon, a sheet of gold holding the 
shipping in black outlines; or, sky all blue, 
the bay looks a brook to be spanned by foot- 
plank, the city seems of toy-houses, the 
Golden Gate a mountain-hemmed lake; or 
the city shrunk into a patch of black mist, 
the bay is a great sheet of quicksilver; or, 
the city stretches everywhere, mountains and 
bay are withdrawn in vague, sad distance. 
It is like the views one takes in changing moods 
of the other world.” 

He seemed amused. *‘What do you know 
of the other world?” he asked. 

As much as any one. What do you think 
about it?” said I. 

“Nothing,” he replied. “Wait till you go 
there yourself. All that has been fancied 
about it does not near the truth. People are 
much surprised when they die.” 

And he laughed low and long, as if all to 
himself, at some secret thought. 

“Angels came in dreams in Bible-times,” I 


Singeb iHotljs. 


45 


said. once had a dream which was a great 
comfort to me. I thought I asked some one if 
we were immortal and should meet our friends. 
He answered, *You ought to know by your 
own spirit.’ ” 

*‘Has your spirit never deceived you?” 
asked our lodger; ** does it not daily tell you 
wrong, for or against things you would do or 
think?” 

I sighed to have to own how often my own 
thought had duped me. What strange power 
this man has — like a baleful star — to stir 
doubt in my heart ! But my first distrust of 
him is gone; instead, he seems more like some 
one dear to me of old. By a fine sympathy 
he often seems to know before I speak what I 
am about to say, as if he read my mind. ”lf 
evil, there is also good ” I began. 

He frowned. ** There is too much light!” 
he cried, and we came indoors. 

As I went down the stairs I looked back, 
saw his swarthy face in the fiery glow of the 
sunset, and saw for an instant a wonderful 
model for a picture of the Prince of Darkness. 


46 


Singeb iUotljs. 


ELIZABETH’S DIARY. 

August go . — Our lodger, who proves a 
thorough musician — though he tells me he is 
heir to a proud foreign title — seems like an 
old friend, now I am used to his odd blonde 
beauty. He took me to-night to hear Faust, 
It was brought out with more care than often 
given, the voices sweet and well-trained, the 
acting good; but Mr. Orne was restless, and 
laughed at it all; and it had not so vivid a 
charm for me as before, though I shuddered at 
the weird warnings that in the overture, with 
mystic awe, hint all the tragic love-tale. 

Where,” I asked him, ‘‘has the music 
fled when the instrument is broken? It seems 
like a soul.” 

“You do not knowy^^ he answered, “of any 
hereafter for your own soul !” 

“No,” said I; “but neither do we know all 
the hidden chances for bliss or woe in our 
lives; that we do not knowy does not make 
them less there.” 

“Swayed by this music,” he said, “you 
are not the same person who left home. Self 
thus made and unmade each moment, one is 
but a drift of atoms, unlikely to meet again !” 

“Is it chance, or are we clock-work?” I said, 


Singeb iUotIjs. 


47 


as the opera went on, and I was filled with a 
sense of the folly of striving against fate. 

Or are we ruled by unearthly powers, as 
these instruments are played upon and forced 
to yield certain strains?*^ 

‘‘That is not for you to know,*^ he said. 

“Perhaps,’* said I, “vibrations from angels’ 
choirs jar us like the atoms of Chladni, into- 
our places.” 

“Then an infernal chorus,” said he, “may 
cause the discord of awful crimes?” 

“Yes,” I said, “ a spell from hell. What 
can the real Mephisto think of this stage 
copy?” 

“ It is as if a wild bloom tried to be a hot- 
house flower,” he said. “How would you 
like a crude mockery of yourself?” 

As we sat there, 1 could almost fancy in 
him a queer, flitting likeness to the Mephis- 
topheles before us, like an image in a brook, 
shaken and changed by speaking to him. 

While the music stirred me as wind blows a 
leaf, 1 saw so many unmoved faces in the 
crowd that 1 asked him : “ Why does the effect 
of music vary on different persons?” 

“Because,” said he, “in music the un- 
earthly touches the human. Some have no 
soul, no vital spark to move — like Tyndall’s 


48 


Singed i$l0tl)s. 


sensitive flame, which shrinks at a hiss, thrills 
at a jar, and leaps at a waltz.” 

Music seems to me,” I said, ”as if we 
heard a spirit trying to take bodily shape, but 
failing.” 

** Like that Mephisto there,” he said ; and 
after we reached home he still scoffed at that 
singer^s make-up and acting. 

” Why, even his laugh,” said he, ” had not 
the true ring. This is the way he should have 
looked and laughed” — and he donned my 
cloak, with its tasseled hood above his head 
in grotesque shape, and gave a wild laugh, 
which sent cold chills over us, and made 
Biddy, passing along the hall, stop and cross 
herself. 

** You have frightened Biddy,” I said. 

“Oh, no,” he said, “it is her own soul 
that scares her.” 

Then he brought his violin, and played Tar- 
tini’s “ Dream ” for a good-night — “to make 
you dream,” he told us. 

“ How strange it is,” I said, “ that dreams 
— else forgotten — sometimes come back to us 
at the sound of music.” 

“ If they could only be brought again and 
finished,” said Katharine, “ you might read the 
letter which lately came to you, Charlotte.” 


Qin^ch illotl)©. 


49 


*‘What was that?’^ he asked, with keen 
interest. 

Charlotte read to him her verses : 

“ UNKNOWN. 

“ To me what could that note reveal 

Which glimmered through my dream? 
Large, white, with an unbroken seal. 

From whom ’twas sent no gleam. 

Like planet’s wheel our dreams conceal 
Strange hints of Life’s hid scheme. 

“ Was it from friend in distant star? 

Or one on earth, in sleep? 

Or that twin-soul whose path lies far 
From waking glances sweep? 

Or sent to mar all joys that are 
Where Dream-land shadows creep r 

“ The music-score of demon-band? 

Or summons to witch ball? 

Or form of compact wily planned 
And signed with mystic scrawl. 

From fairy-land, or goblin damned, 

To hold my soul in thrall? 

“ Did my good angel send me balm 
For heart too ill at ease? 

Perhaps a spray from heavenly palm. 

As signal of release — 

Or tale of charm in that fair calm. 

To cheer and give me peace? 


50 


Singelr iHotljs. 


“ What were its contents, grave or glad 
Reply to all I ask, 

When worn and weary, baffled, mad 
Despairing at Life’s task, 

I would have had the reason sad. 

Not wear its iron mask. 

“ Was it a message from the dead. 

Of hope, or warning sign ? 

Accursed be whatever led 
My soul from sleep divine ! 

O’er note unread in that dream fled 
I often muse and pine ! 

“ Do not open a letter which comes in your 
sleep,” said Mr. Orne, plainly vexed at such 
nonsense; ‘‘evil spirits are as likely to be 
near as good ones. The world of sleep is their 
carnival.” 

Charlotte looked pale and startled. Kath- 
arine laughed. 

“ 1 do not need to dream,” said I. “I have 
other warnings.” 

‘‘What sort?” he asked, eagerly. 

“ Oh — a little bird tells me,” 1 said. 

“Take care,” said he, as he left us; “it 
may be the bird of the Amazon, the ‘ Lost 
Soul’!’^ 


Sinigeb iHotlis. 


51 


BIDDY GOSSIPS. 

“Sit down, Mrs. O’Shane; I can talk an’ 
iron too. Did ye mind the gintleman who 
wint out as ye kem in? He’s the strange 
lodger. Though he’s been here since June, 
an’ it’s now the middle of September, he is, 
an’ always will be, the strange lodger. The 
ladies upstairs are all greatly taken wid him, 
but what they can like I can’t, thin. Him — 
wid his club-foot, his hair in two curls like 
horns, his sly, cruel eyes, wid small whites to 
thim, his foxy, pinted ears, an’ claw-fingers ! 

“The first mornin’ he was here, I was on 
the front steps, cornin’ from market, whin he 
wint out; an’ the sight of him made me cross 
mysilf. He gave me a scowl that was heart- 
scaldin’, and he seemed to jist melt into air 
like a flash, he was gone so quick — wid his 
flame-colored hair an’ whiskers, like the Judas- 
beard in the garden ; his hollow back, too thin 
to cast a shadow; an’ his feet of unaven size. 
Sure, God’s writin’ is plain enough ! 

“ It gives me a turn to hear his knock, for 
ne ’ll not touch the bell. It is no work for thim 
to care for his room ; he niver seems to have 
moved anythin’. They wondered >\'hy the 
piant died in tne bangin’- basket in the hall. 


52 


Singed illctijs. 


But I saw him brush by it one day ; it was 
that killed it. 

Thin he nearly crazes me, makin* the 
wildest music on his fiddle. It *s always the 
sly lad that takes to playin^ on that, an* 
there *s nothin’ plain an* open about him. 
The three sisters are charmed wid him in- 
toirly. But the sight I got of him one night 
was enough for me — warnin’ for anybody. 
He had taken Miss Elizabeth to the theatre ; 
an* after they kem back, he caught her opera- 
cloak, as it was slippin* from her shoulders to 
the floor, an* threw it over himsilf wid the 
pinted hood on his head, stickin* up like a 
horn. Ugh ! what a divil he looked ! I 
wondered what was in his nose thin. An* 
he gave a screech of a laugh that curdled my 
blood an* set my hair on ind. Sure, he *s one 
of those ye ought to hate at sight; an* ye 
may know, if ye have much to do wid ’em, 
ye will come to be ready to travel many a 
hard mile to hear the dirt fall on their coffins. 

“ Even the cat there knows more than the 
three women; grave an* still as she is, she 
knows what bad spirits have power at Mid- 
summer Eve, an* that was the night the quare 
man kem. 

“I tell ye, il think he’s sort o* bewitched 


Singeb ittotljs. 


53 


the sisters. They aven think they are wid 
him whin I know they are not. One will be 
tellin’ me of goin’ to a concert wid him. The 
same afternoon another says to me she was 
walkin^ wid him, an’ the other will speak of 
his bein’ wid her here in the house ! They 
are not much better off than before he kem, 
but they think they are. Lone, worried 
women take odd notions. They are jist out 
of their heads about him, but they ’ll come to 
grief, mind ye. Mind ye, he who eats wid 
the Divil has need of a long spoon ! Perhaps 
they think it ’s in love they are, but it ’s not 
love. It’s not the feelin’ I had for Patrick, 
which made me not care whether he had cabin 
an’ pig, or not. Don’t mind me, I have to 
wipe away the tears when I think of him, 
though his grave is far away as Ireland an’ 
twenty-five years can make it. But whin ye 
have known the rale thing, ye can tell what is 
sham. No, they are thinkin’ of what they ’ll 
git, not of the man. 

Must ye go? Wait till I open the door for 
ye. Stay, do ye see that tall figure, a little 
lame, skulkin’ up the street in the moonlight? 
Kape on the other side of the way, an’ count 
yer beads as ye go, an’ don’t look , at him, 
for he has the evil eye. Run now, for he 


54 


Sinigcb 


always moves so quick, I can think of nothin* 
but what I once heard the priest say in a ser- 
mon: ‘And I beheld Satan like lightnin* fallin* 
from heaven.’ ” 


CHARLOTTE’S DIARY. 

September jo. — To-day Mr. Orne took me 
to the park to see the Victoria Regia, like a 
bit of a sunrise cloud. He bought me a bou- 
quet, but the heat of his hand withered it in 
a moment. He is so odd — darting here and 
there. I was speaking of the flower of the 
Holy Ghost, thinking he was by me, but sud- 
denly found him distant the whole length of 
the greenhouse. When we came home, he 
drew the great lily with one or two dashes of 
his pencil ; but though a true copy, I thought 
the outline bore, too, an odd likeness to an 
elfin face ; but he talked me out of it. 

“ Though Saint Cyprian saw the Devil in a 
flower, you need not,” he said. 

“You work so quickly,” I replied; “it makes 
me think of the Devil’s crucifix, painted by 
two strokes of his brush in the convent of the 
Capuchin friars at Rome. He did it for a soul 
bound to him ; and the soul was so struck with 
its heartrending truth, that he made the sign 
of the cross, and got free.” 


Qingeb iHotljs. 


55 


“It is well known,” he said, “the Devil 
would be an artist.” 

“ Is art an evil power?” I asked. 

“Doctor Donne,” said he, “preached be- 
fore Oliver Cromwell that the Muses were 
damned spirits of devils. No one can mark 
where the presence of evil comes and goes. It 
may be very near, and you not know it.” 

I tried to work on his portrait, but in vain. 
He changes so much with his moods, and the 
fire of his eyes is not to be copied. The girls 
want to see it, but I keep it screened. To-day 
he was very restless ; told me secrets of color 
thought to have been lost for ages; tossed 
over my portfolios of sketches and rhymes 
with mingled praise and blame. He found and 
read to me : 


“ UNFULFILLED. 

“ The night was dark and wet, in long gone age, 
When Genevieve to mass with maidens went ; 
The gleaming torches, carried by a page 

Through gustvwind and rain, were quickly spent; 
She touched them, and again their ruddy glare 
Shone on the pious souls who wanderei there. 

‘ No fire of this world ’—thus the legend ran ; 

’ T was her same force celestial that could snare 
The secret thought of man ! 


56 


©ingjJt iillolljs. 


“ Upon the gilded tomb of Genevieve — 

In church of Saint Etienne du Mont, the quaint, 
With airy stair from shadowed aisle to eave — 
Behind a golden grating lies the saint. 

Forever tapers shine. Who buys one tries 
To send some earnest prayer to Paradise. 

Ah! long I watched its eager, changing flare — 

As hands raised, palm to palm, point toward the 
skies — 

My burning, burning prayer ! 

“ Wind-shaken, like my thought that bold aspired. 

It paused, drooped fainting, rose again, implored, 
While I, like frantic moth, all my desire 
Cast on the flame that yearningly adored. 

Around my sacred hope this aureole 
Became a steady beacon for my soul, 

And through long years of darkness and despair 
Its cheering rays athwart my care would roll, 

My glowing, glowing prayer ! 

“ At last, like smoke-wreath poising over flame, 

The shadow of my hope loomed just in view. 

But floated off, nor ever nearer came. 

Was it within my sway for joy or rue? 

Who shall define the bounds of will and fate, 

Man’s choice, or hand of Providence debate? 

To lose it was to see Hell’s lurid flashes. 

And Heaven is — to find there, incarnate. 

My prayer that burned to ashes ! ” 

The strange smile that curled his lip made 
me in despair throw down my brush. 


Sinigeb illotlis. 


57 


“ There the Catholics are like the followers 
of Confucius/' said he, ‘‘who think what is 
burned rises to the next world. Do you recall 
the Devil of human size on the outer gallery of 
Notre Dame in Paris? Do you think he 
watches the smoke of the city to know what 
people want? Eastern tales are nearer right 
that keep him in ruins and desert places.” 

“ Like the minds he wrecks or lays waste.” 

He flashed upon me a glance of keen ques- 
tion, then bent again over the sketch-books. 
He found a photograph of my favorite “ Paolo 
and Francesca,” falling, falling, forever and 
ever, murky shadows reaching from below to 
engulf them, the light of lost Paradise stream- 
ing from above, a troop of filmy forms in the 
background watching. 

“ Is it not the worst of all for each that they 
must both go?” I asked. 

“ Would not their parting be worse?” said 
he. “ No — that is not hell.” 

With his swift pencil he sketched some 
woeful figures looking back — one who sees his 
bosom friend forget him ; one who knows his 
foe pleased at his death ; one who finds his 
secrets come to the gaze of the world ; one 
who learns that the woman far love of whom 
he died loves and regrets him. 


58 


0ingeb iHotlja. 


he said, *Ms to keep the same pas- 
sions without the human frame in which to 
show them — to be in your old haunts and see 
things going against your wishes with no 
power to hinder ; no dropping through bottom- 
less pit, no raging flame could be worse. What 
would you choose for heaven?’* 

“ To look back,” I said, “and see at least 
one of my pictures live on. I would give my 
soul for that.” 

He clasped my hand as if to close a compact, 
and, as the other arm went round my waist, 
he said: “ But your own image, mirrored in 
the soul that loves you, maybe more lasting.” 

I felt his fiery kiss upon my mouth. Be- 
wildered, I could have believed that over his 
shoulder I saw the figures in his sketches be- 
gin to dance and jeer at me. I shrank back. 
At that moment, Katharine and Elizabeth burst 
in where we were, like jealous sisters in a 
fairy tale. 

KATHARINE’S DIARY. 

October 75. — I went with Mr. Orne to a 
ball last night. The girls helped me dress, 
and each lent of her best, but I was so dazed 
with the strain of trying to look gay, while 
dulled by vain struggle to feel well, in our old 


Singed ill0tl)3. 


59 


worn things, that all the hours I was gone, 
though I seemed to see rich robes of Flanders 
lace and Genoa velvet he had sent for me to 
wear, yet 1 was mindful how Elizabeth had 
warned me of some carefully darned lace that 
would not bear a touch, and Charlotte had 
dyed an old sash-ribbon, and painted flowers 
over stains, and we had all sighed over the 
whole. 

But here I was, as if in a leaf far back in 
the book of my life, in full dress once more, 
whirling with a rich and gay escort down a 
long hall of dancers, the band playing the 
‘‘Lucifer^* waltzes, my partner buoying me 
clear of the crowd. He seems to know every 
one ; he was nodding right and left. I would 
cry: ‘^Why, do you know him?” *Mnti- 
mately,” he would answer. And once, as he 
said so, the voice of a passing dancer reached 
our ears, and made us smile: ” The Devil is 
nearer a man than his coat or his shirt.” 

He slipped on my finger a ring set with an 
opal of occult power and mystic fire, like the 
lurid light in his eyes ; and when I said, ‘‘ I 
like ‘a pearl with a soul in it,’” he replied: 
‘‘ That is its very charm for me — the soul in 
it,” looking at me as if he could will my very 
soul from me. I heard people groan that the 


6o 


Singed iUotljs. 


supper was gone, but he brought me dainties 
in plenty, and unlike what others had found. 
I heard him jesting in many languages with 
this or that one, well known and liked by all. 
He told me he had just made a fortune in min- 
ing stocks. As I sipped and played with my 
spoon, caught the witch-gleam of my opal, felt 
pleased with the fine mesh of my laces, the 
shadow and glow of my velvet, I felt that to 
gain all such spendthrift wants of mine would 
make heaven of earth. Then the man went 
by who had quoted Luther. Was the Devil so 
near.? Who was our strange lodger, who filled 
my mind with such wild thoughts, like an evil 
planet drawing forth all the bad in my nature.? 
Then 1 forgot my doubts in the swift whirl of 
music and dance. 

As we stood on our steps and he searched 
for his latch-key, 1 watched the fire of my 
opal, burning like a will-o’-the-wisp in the 
moon-lit dark. 

‘‘ It has a weird life of its own ! ” I cried ; 
and, fearing my sisters’ eyes of wonder and 
envy, ** Take it ! ” 1 said. 

** Not without you,” he answered, bending 
over me, and a sudden, brief kiss scorched my 
lips. 

Then the girls, who had sat up for us, and 


Singeb iHotl)s. 


6i 


heard the carriage, had opened the door and 
swept us upstairs with them. 

1 could have thought them jealous by the 
way Charlotte cried: ‘‘You look changed in 
some way — like a shining spirit against a dark 
cloud!” And Elizabeth added : “It does not 
matter much about your dress, after all! ” 

I stood before our bureau-glass. It showed 
me the darned lace and dyed ribbon with 
which they had dressed me. Had I imagined 
my fine things? Perhaps I had but fancied 
the ball, the lights, and music, and my — 
lover ! The ring was gone. 

And then the next I knew, they had un- 
dressed me and put me in bed, and Elizabeth 
was cooling my head with damp cloths, while 
Charlotte was fanning me, and I heard them 
murmur together, as if far off. “What did 
she mutter about a ring set with a spark 
from hell? ** Elizabeth asked. And Charlotte 
answered : “ That she was sealed to Satan ! ” 


ELIZABETH’S DIARY. 

October 31, — This afternoon, as I played 
Gr^goire’s fine “Etude du Diable,” I was 
startled to my feet by finding Mr. Orne stood 
close behind me to hear. 


62 


Singeb i)n0tl)s. 


“ Good, is n’t it?” I asked. 

Not the right thought,” said he; ‘‘listen.” 
And he drew from his violin strains of dread 
meaning. 

“That is more unearthly,” I said; “a 
spirit might play so.” 

“And a wicked one?” he answered. “The 
Mussulman legend runs, that the Devil is given 
leave to fill his spare time with music, song, 
love-poetry, and dancing.” 

“ How is it that you can surpass all others?” 
I asked. 

“ Because 1 have the will — the secret magic 
of all success.” 

“ Teach me,” 1 cried, “ to win power, posi- 
tion ! ” 

“Will you leave your sisters without fare- 
well,” he asked, “ and fly with me at twelve 
to-night, knowing no more of where you go 
than that you will have rank and sway be- 
yond your wildest dreams?” 

He drew me to him ; his burning lips touched 
mine. Then my sisters rushed in, with that 
new, watchful way of theirs, and he went 
out. 

This evening, as we sat together for the last 
time in our safe, warm, bright room, with a 
rising storm stirring all round the house, I 


Singeb ittotljs. 


6s 


could hardly keep from telling the girls that I 
was going abroad, and all he had promised me. 
Indeed, 1 did hint about it, but they thought it 
only one of our old day-dreams, and Katharine, 
as if sure that hers was coming true, began to 
tell us how she should build her castle. Lean- 
ing proudly on the mantelpiece, she looked 
statuesque, as if the petrifying effect of wealth 
had begun. 

‘‘But how sad it is,^^ she said, “to think 
that death can bear me from it all.’^ 

“ My pictures,’’ said Charlotte, “will live 
when I am gone.” 

“Position,” said I, “may be prized even 
then, if we can look back.” 

“ Yees can take nothin wij ye,” said 
Biddy, who had come in unheard, “ but 
love.” 

We all started, and then laughed in scorn. 

“ Sure, the priest was tellin’ only last Sun- 
day,” said she, “ how Saint Theresa could say 
nothing worse of the Divil than ‘ Poor wretch, 
he loves not.’ Her notion of hell was that no- 
love was there. But love is all we ’re sure of 
in heaven.” 

“Biddy, have you come to preach a ser- 
mon?” 1 asked. 

“No, I beg yer pardon. ’T is All Souls’ 


64 




Eve, and I thought maybe yees would come 
to vespers to-night. The music ’ll be fine.” 

For a moment we thought of going. I half 
rose; Katharine went a step or two toward 
the door; Charlotte left her seat. Was it the 
unfelt wind which blows us on the shoals of 
destiny which drove us back ? 

” Not now, Biddy,” said I; ‘‘some other 
time. To-night Charlotte is, at last, going to 
let us see her portrait of our lodger. Don’t 
you want to wait and see it?” 

Charlotte placed it where we could view it 
in the long glass, which had lights around it, 
“ like a shrine,” Biddy said, as if she did not 
like it. 

As Charlotte unveiled it, Katharine and I 
cried, in surprise : “ This is not his likeness ! ” 

And Biddy, laughing, said: “ Not a bit, not 
a bit like him ! ” 

“It is not only better-looking, but it is 
another man,” said I; “there is no Spanish 
knight about 

“No, indeed,” said Katharine; “the true 
type of an American I call him.” 

“Why no,” said I; “ he is a pure German 
blonde.” 

Biddy heard, half-grinning, half-frowning. 
“ Oh, yees are all bewitched, an’ ’tis Allhal- 


Singeir iilotljs. 


65 


lows Eve/^ she said; ** come to the holy 
vespers, do.’’ 

But we laughed and sent her off ; and when 
she had gone Mr. Orne suddenly stood in the 
door, as if he had sprung through the floor, 
and paused, looking at his picture. 

“ Come and tell us,” cried Katharine, ** how 
is it that Charlotte could paint you in this 
way?” 

‘‘No two persons see alike,” he said. 
“ One seems to different people to have as 
many characters, perhaps as many aspects. 
How few agree when speaking of any one ! ” 

“But this,” said Katharine, “has not your 
mouth; and you are neither light nor dark.” 

“ But this,” said I, “ has not your chin, nor 
your fair hair.” 

“ But this,” said Charlotte, “ has your dark 
curls. It is just like you, except the eyes, 
perhaps.” 

Then we all stared wildly at each other. 

“But this,” said Biddy, glancing in, with 
her bonnet on, “is All Souls’ Eve, if yees 
would only come.” 

“Where?” cried Mr. Orne, in a voice of 
scorn. But, seeing him, she fled like light- 
ning, and the outer door echoed like thunder 
after her. 


66 


Singed 


He soon followed. ‘*But not to vespers/' 
he said, laughing. 

Katharine, Charlotte, and I wrangled over 
the picture till Charlotte screened and put it 
by, and sat at her desk to rhyme; while I, at 
the piano, with precious minor keys, unlocked 
the inner gates of the realm of musing, and 
Katharine sat with open book on lap, but look- 
ing in the fire. Hours went by with no word 
between us. We did not heed when Biddy 
came home, nor know when Mr. Orne passed 
through the door, but found him with us again. 

*‘This is a fine gale," he said. “Bodies 
may be housed, but think of flitting souls go- 
ing out into such a night." 

“ Is it the wind and storm," cried Charlotte, 
“which set me to writing this.?" And, while 
the winds tore round the house in a witches' 
dance she read to us : 

“AFTER DEATH. 

“ All through the unseen realm of air I float; 

The souls that, passing, mount to God, I note ; 

Each flashing through the void like fiery mote 
By fierce wind blown. 

“ Death makes an anvil of our pigmy world. 

And drives these sparks — these spirits upward 
whirled — 

That glimmer on till all the dark is furled. 

Before the throne ! 


J! 













t 


4 






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Singeb iHotl)©. 


67 


“ I would look back and linger, linger yet — 

What can I feel but passionate regret? 

When I remember thy dear eyelids wet, 

What shall atone? 

“ But, borne by some resistless force, I go 
To learn what but immortal spirits know — 

Or faint and fading into darkness flow — 

Dread path unknown ! 

“ The earth becomes a distant waning star. 

What ! is this all? A memory floating far ; 

My conscience for the dreaded judgment bar ; 

And this alone?” 

In the shadowed chimney-corner Mr. Orne 
nearly went out of sight as she read. He 
seemed coming and going by the flickering fire 
as she paused or went on ; and, at the end, 
I thought he had left the room ; but a sudden 
glow of the fire showed that there he sat. 
Then he added some verses, while Katharine’s 
book — “ Footfalls on the Boundaries of Another 
World” — slid to the floor, as she bent toward 
pictures in the fire ; Charlotte leaned on her 
desk, with her face in her hands ; and I, drift- 
ing off in a dream-skiff, trailed my hands 
through a rippling tide of music. 

In a few minutes he read to us : 

“ No dazzling ranks of angels’ choirs appear. 

Nor bands of wailing spirits damned are here, 

A merely silent, lonely, misty sphere 
Forever shown, 


68 


0ingeb iJlotlje. 


“ Where darts that restless flame, my naked soul. 

But sometimes yet at thy fond thought’s control 
I can return, thy faithful heart my goal, 

My Love, my Own ! 

“ Know at thy tears I tremble, almost wane. 

Thy sighs revive my smouldering fire again, 

The best of life, our love, may yet remain, 

Eternal grown. 

“ But if thou canst forget, my light will pale, ^ 
When no regret of thine seeks my lost trail. 

Then, only then, within dim depths I fail. 

Expire, alone ! ” 

I roused from my rapt gaze at him to find 
Charlotte and Katharine looking at him as in- 
tently as if they, with their sudden jealousy, 
fancied the lines meant for them. The winds 
howled and shook the house, the rain beat 
against the pane, Mr. Orne, uneasy, too, 
walked up and down the long room, and his 
deep, rich voice, a cordial that warmed the 
ear, broke forth in ** King Death is a rare old 
fellow He paused after one verse before 
Katharine. ‘‘Even Money is powerless before 
him,” said he. 

He stopped after the next verse by Char- 
lotte. “ Yet Death may be foiled by Fame,” 
he said. 

As he came near me at another verse, he 


Singeb iHotljs. 


69 


said: ‘*On a level with all at the touch of 
* his yellow hand.’ ” 

We heard his voice die away in the distance 
in the ghostly old song about King Death. By 
the queer, subtile sway of one spirit over 
another, my sisters seemed to feel that parting 
was near. They could not have acted other- 
wise if either of them thought of going. 

‘‘Good-night, girls,” said Charlotte, start- 
ing, but coming back to kiss us. “ Perhaps I 
should say good-by. ‘Who has seen to- 
morrow?’ ” 

Soon after, Katharine rose. “ Good-night,” 
she said, kissing me, “and good-by — till we 
meet again.” 

I sit here alone, writing. I have listened to 
the vanishing sound of her footsteps; I am 
tempted to call them back. But it is on the 
stroke of twelve. The storm rages still more 
wildly; an awful night to be out. What a 
surprise is in store for my sisters ! When I 
next see them, how strange will be our meet- 
ing! 


BIDDY GOSSIPS AGAIN. 

“Sure, an’ it’s kind of ye, Mrs. O’Shane, 
to come in this pourin’ rain to-night. Give me 
the umbrill, an’ sit ye down by the fire. Yes, 


70 


Singcir iHotljs. 


it has stormed night an^ day for a week — ever 
since Allhallows Eve, heaven save us ! 

** Tell ye all about it? Oh, they got worse 
an’ worse — all three wild in love wid him, an’ 
that jealous they did n’t want one of them to 
be alone wid him. Now, he was all wrapped 
up in Miss Elizabeth, playing duets wid his 
witch of a fiddle, showin’ her how to write 
music, an’ talkin’ of his high rank at home ; 
then jist the same wid Miss Charlotte, teach- 
in’ her how to mix colors, an’ touchin’ up her 
pictures, an’ tellin’ her she was a wonder, an’ 
folks wouldn’t forget her^ an’ writin’ verses 
wid her ; an’ jist as deep wid Miss Katharine, 
plannin’ how she was to make her fortune in 
no time, an’ always showin’ off in some way 
how rich he was. 

How did I know his ways so well? Did n’t 
I use to be goin’ through the hall quite care- 
less, an’ hear it all? Ye may learn a good 
dale that way, by niver hurryin’ yourself. 
Many’s the time he nearly caught me, but I 
got into the dark corner, wid my apron over 
my head, quakin’ as he went by. But at last 
he got a dog — an awful big, black crater, wid 
eyes like coals, an’ I had to kape down here. 

** 1 did talk to thim. I could n’t make thim 
see him as I did, try as much as I would. Ye 




71 


might as well warn water not to run down hill. 
An^ he windin^ round thim like a snake, I 
used to think. May the holy saints kape us ! 
Is that only the shutters knockin’.? Let us 
say a prayer or two. It makes me shake to 
think of him now. 

“About the mornin’ after All Souls’ Eve, is 
it.? Listen to this, thin: His sketches an’ 
verses they thought so much of had turned to 
black paper! They each had his picture, 
they called it, but neither one looked like him, 
an’ that mornin’ they had sunk to a little heap 
of ashes under where they had hung! An’ 
Miss Elizabeth’s portrait of him was never as 
she thought she left it, nor as her sisters 
thought it looked, but it was like him as I saw 
him, only it had no eyes I 

“ If ye’ll believe it each one showed me 
that night a fine necklace the strange man had 
given her, a secret from the others. It was 
good as a play to see them cornin’, one after 
the other, on the same errand. Poor dears ! 
Bless us and save us ! — don’t move your chair 
with such a sudden noise, it makes me jump ; 
an’ don't kape lookin’ behind ye I Miss Char- 
lotte’s was coral, all carved into little imps; 
Miss Elizabeth’s was like great coals of fire — 
carbuncles, she said ’twas; an’ Miss Kath- 


72 


Singed Motifs. 


arine’s was like little red sparks — rubies, she 
called them, an* said it must have cost a great 
deal of money. But next mornin* their bureau 
drawers, where they kept their fine things, 
held no necklaces — nothin* but a heap of dead 
leaves, an* dust, an* pebbles! 

No, it was only a red line round the throat 
each wore for a chain at daylight. Dead, 
then? Dead as Pharaoh! 

Yes, he was gone, an* they will not find 
him, either; though the police an* reporters 
call me a crazy old woman to doubt it, but I*m 
sure they*ll have their trouble for their pains. 
Where is he? The Divil knows ! ** 


A STRAY REVELER. 


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. V , ^ . ,, A . A l\S 







A STRAY REVELER. 


The Picture Which Was a Prophecy, 


“ Who hath known the ways and the wrath, 
The sleepless spirit, the root 
And blossom of evil will? ’’ 


Which is the room, and which is the pic- 
ture?’’ 1 asked my friend Aura, when she 
received me after my iong absence abroad, 
during which I heard she had fallen heir to a 
fortune, but found her looking pinched and 
wan. 

The picture filled nearly one side of the 
room, which was arranged as an exact copy 
of it, even having a lattice-window opening 
lengthwise, put in to match the painted one. 
Carpet, Navajo rugs, chairs, tables, draperies 
were alike. A strip of carpet hid the lower 
part of the frame, so that one might fancy he 
saw double parlors instead of one room and 
a painting. The screen in the room stood at 
just such an angle as just such a screen stood 


75 


76 


^ Strag KetJeler. 


in the painted scene. Tall Japanese vases, 
low bookcase, hanging shelves filled with 
rare, odd trifles, were all thus doubled. 

‘‘ Yes,’’ she said, seeing me glance to and 
fro, 1 felt impelled to copy everything painted 
there, and to banish all my room held before. 
That knotted rope under glass on the mantel? 
Well, no; that was neither in the picture nor 
here, till now ; the fact is, I hold the property 
Penniel left me only by keeping that there. 
Two of his friends, Dacre and Chartram, re- 
ceived bequests on condition of calling here 
unexpectedly at irregular intervals to see that 
I let it remain always in my sight.” 

I don’t like it there.” 

** Nor I; but there is nothing puzzling about 
it as about the picture, finished just before 
he — he died. Thai is a legacy I have often 
pondered over. Why did he call it prophetic? 
I always wonder where the window in it looks, 
and that inner door ajar, showing a banquet- 
scene. Is it a Christmas revel?” 

“ One of the female figures resembles you — 
why, it is meant for you ! ” 

‘‘Don’t, don’t say so! It makes me un- 
easy, and angry, too; for I will believe in 
the ‘mystic’ nonsense of his scribbling, paint- 
ing, and acting tribe.” 


^ Stras Betjeler. 


77 


^‘Yet you always let them hang round 
you.” 

“ Because they are amusing, often hand- 
some, and sometimes have money. But few 
come now, except Chartram and Dacre, in 
their uncertain visits. I am no longer gay 
enough company.” 

Pshaw! as if the influence of one who is 
dead could thus last 1 ” 

** If not, how could there be so many true 
tales of curses which have followed individuals 
or families through generation after genera- 
tion. I never used to believe any such thing. 
I am forced to keep the picture under the 
terms of Penniel’s will, and I cannot help 
studying it.” 

‘'Did Penniel paint it.?” 

“ Yes. He put me in that festive scene 
because I am yet alive. He once spoke of 
ghosts as stray revelers after life’s banquet. 
The vacant seat beside me was to signify 
his absence. ‘Not eternal,’ he wrote; ‘I 
shall come back when you least expect 
it.’” 

“You make me shiver. Let us talk of 
other things. What a pretty inlaid table — 
wild -fowl flying over a marsh — isn’t it.? 
Ah! it is just like that one in the picture. 


78 


% Strag l^cvdcx. 


even to a manuscript lying upon it spread 
open under a horseshoe paper-weight.’’ 

“You see,” said Aura, “one drifts inevit- 
ably to that painting. What the manuscript 
there represents I have often asked myself. 
The one beside you, Dacre wrote. Read it.” 

It was : 

“A FLIGHT OF FANCY. 

“ In single file wild-ducks drift by. 

Dyed red by western glow. 

Belated swallows lonely fly. 

And strange birds trooping go. 

“ Though flown from forest-pine remote, 

Or from near orchard-pear, 

Along the water-depths they float, 

As on the heights of air. 

“ The lake, with mirror-surface spread. 

Bronzed by the day’s bright close, 

To each wayfarer overhead, 

A shadowy double shows. 

“ Ah ! thus reflected in my soul 
What flitting thoughts will stray 
From hidden source — ancestors’ dole, 

Or sunshine of my day. 

“ Fantastic shapes that, circling, throng. 

Some charming, some unblest ; 

I snare one in this fragile song, 

I cannot count the rest.” 


% 0traB l^cvckx. 


79 


1 made another effort to divert her mind. 
** What is behind your lovely screen?” I asked, 

** Nothing. What is behind that one?” she 
asked, pointing to the pictured one. ** That 
question haunts me like the indefinite meaning 
of some passage in Browning or Rossetti.” 

” What have you learned by your study of 
it?” 

“What do you discover by examining that 
screen near you?” 

“ Masses of interwoven flowers with trailing 
vines and lights and shadows athwart the 
whole. Who painted it?” 

“Chartram; and while he was doing it he 
and 1 suddenly detected amid those apparently 
random dashes of color eleven letters. Look 
again — begin at the lower left-hand corner and 
cross diagonally — here are lilies of the valley, 
then eschscholtzias, a branch of xanthoxylum 
fraxineum^ tuberoses, azalias, lobelia, iris- 
lilies, oleander blossoms, Neapolitan violets, 
ixia-lilies, and stephanotis flowers.” 

“Well?” 

“Don’t you see? Two words not merely 
spelled by the first letter of the plants’ names, 
as the old-fashioned ‘regard’ rings were set 
with ruby, emerald, garnet, amethyst, ruby, 
and diamond, but by looking carefully you can 


So 


^ 0tra2 Ketjeler. 


discern, in the seemingly careless spray or 
cluster, the letter in indistinct and fanciful 
form.” 

As she spoke and I gazed at the screen, I was 
surprised to distinguish so plainly now the 
words. Lex talio7iis ! so skillfully placed as to 
elude a careless glance. ‘‘The law of re- 
venge!” I cried. “Was this more of your 
old coquetries.?” 

“No; I did not tire of Penniel a^ usual. He 
had one charm all my other lovers had lacked : 
a stronger will than mine.” 

I looked at her inquiringly. 

“When you went away you remember 
I was starving — genteelly starving. I met 
Penniel; he was engaged to an heiress. 1 
reasoned with myself that she did not need his 
money as I did. I used every art to win him 
from her.” 

“Oh, Aura!” 

“1 did, I did ! I may own it now, since both 
are dead.” 

“Both.?” 

“ Yes ; he broke the engagement on account 
of something I told him about her. She died 
soon after, some say broken-hearted; but, of 
course, we know that is a mere phrase. I pre- 
sume she got a cold, or something.” 










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8i 


‘‘And your refusal of him killed him ? 

“No; I accepted him. All went well until 
one night we went on horseback with a party 
of friends, on a moonlight trip to the Cliff 
House. While there, he overheard me own 
my worship for money. *Not marry for it ? * 
I said. ‘ It is a woman’s duty.’ And he met 
there that night some old friend who completely 
disproved all I had told him about Helen Roth- 
say, the girl who died. Oh, how angry he was! 
— his eyes were lurid, he never spoke to me 
again. Next day he sent back to me these 
verses he had found that Dacre had written for 
me to give him as mine, though you know 
there is nothing nonsensical about me.” 

She gave me to read a 

“ VILLANELLE. 

“What clouds of laughing little Loves arise— 

On buoyant wing are all about me blown ! 

I dream within the night of his dark eyes. 

“ How blest to be, though but in flower guise, 

Worn on his heart until my life were flown ! 

What clouds of laughing little Loves arise ! 

“ Forgotten is the sun, to-day’s blue skies, 

I know nor time nor space nor any zone ; 

I dream within the night of his dark eyes — 


82 


% Strag ^cvcicx. 


“By fancied blisses borne to Paradise, 

Like some translated saint that Art has shown. 

What clouds of laughing little Loves arise ! 

“Such lotos-eating lures until one dies, 

No poppy-petals such nepenthe own ; 

1 dream within the night of his dark eyes. 

“For him my passion waxes crescent-wise; 

Will wind and tide of Fate its sway disown? 

What clouds of laughing little Loves arise ! 

1 dream within the night of his dark eyes.” 

“ He also sent me a letter telling me of these 
discoveries and taking leave. ‘ I shall avenge 
Helen’s wrongs,’ he wrote, * 1 shall avenge my 
own wrongs, but in my own time and in my 
own way. You shall suffer for what you have 
done, if I have to come back from the next 
world to make you. Poor or rich, old or young, 
sad or gay, remember that / /lave not forgot- 
tenr^ 

“ He died soon after ? ” 

*‘Yes; in a year and a day from the time we 
first met, which was Christmas Eve.” 

Company came, and I could hear no more. 

Two weeks later, on Christmas Eve, Aura 
sent for me. I found her in the same room, 
looking thinner and more depressed, and study- 
ing the painting. 

** Don’t ! ” I said; “ you will dream of it.” 


% Strag Heuelcr. 


83 


“ I did. I have been in the picture, gathered 
a leaf from that graceful clump of ferns grow- 
ing in the odd jar, sat in that antique chair, 
and looked from that open window.*’ 

I could not understand my hitherto matter- 
of-fact friend. “ What did you see?’ I asked. 

“ The same grand sunrise that thrilled us, 
Penniel, Dacre, Chartram, and I, as we re- 
turned from a New Year’s Eve ball. A sunrise 
Penniel wrote about.” 

She showed me these lines : 

“A NEW-YEAR’S DAWN. 

“Through fog that veils both sky and bay there gleam 
The sun and wraith, red glowing ; 

So interblended that one flame they seem 
As if dread portent showing. 

“Where will it lead us through the year untried, 
Through what vast desert places, 

Vague tracts of time whose misty margins glide 
Within eternal spaces? 

“1, weary pilgrim in Life’s caravan. 

That pillared fire must follow 
Past pyramid and sphinx of Doubt and Ban, 

Mirage of Hope, how hollow ! 

“ Palm-shaded wells of joy, too far apart. 

Long leagues through changeful weather. 

Unless that foe in ambush, my own heart. 

Leaps, and we fall together ! ” 


84 


^ 0tra2 EetjeUr. 


‘‘ What else happened?” I asked. 

“ Nothing. 1 was dimly conscious of coming 
from that room into this. I want to stay here. 
Tell me about your travels, and divert me.” 

I talked to her a long while ; then she brewed 
rich chocolate, which we sipped as we sat 
silently listening to the sounds of mirth from a 
party given by boarders in the opposite room, 
listening to the fog-horn and the wind, till 
drowsiness stole over us insensibly as the fog 
crept round the house, as if forming an im- 
palpable barrier around a region enchanted. 

Suddenly Aura started out of her doze with 
a piercing cry, and sat trembling from head to 
foot. have been there again,” she said. 

** You have not left your chair.” I mur- 
mured, half-awake; ** you dropped asleep.” 

Perhaps you think so; but I have been in 
the picture.” She shuddered as she turned 
her head to look at it. “ There were two 
vacant places at the table. I no longer sat 
there, but wandered about the outer room 
while the guests at supper were watching and 
whispering and pointing, and a murmur of 
* Lex ialionis / * ran from mouth to mouth. I 
felt that some horror waited for me and drew 
me to that screen, but I tried not to go. I 
went to the window, but the view was changed 


% Strug Uejjeler. 


85 


to the blackness of midnight. I looked in the 
mirror, yet saw nothing reflected but the room 
behind me. I was not to be seen. I noticed 
the perfume of the flowers in the bouquet on 
the table. I saw this room, with our figures 
sitting before the fire, with our chocolate-tray 
between us, as a picture on the wall of that 
room. I took the manuscript from the table, 
and found it to be verses, as we thought. I 
can repeat them : 

BALLADE OF THE SEA OF SLEEP. 

When from far headland of the Night 1 slip, 

What potent force within the rising tide 
Bears me resistless as the billows dip, 

To meet their shifting wonders, eager-eyed, 

Or float, half-conscious what stars watch me glide. 

To fear when nightmare monster’s weight o’erpowers. 
Or laugh with nymphs and mermen in their bowers — 
Through blinding tempest toss on breakers steep. 

Or fail for countless fathoms past what lowers 
Below the dream waves of the sea of Sleep ! 

I trace, with sails all set, the unbuilt ship. 

And sunken treasure, ere the waves subside ; 

Find here the wrecked craft making phantom trip ; 

Define the misty bounds : upon this side. 

The mighty mountains of the Dark abide ; 

On that, the realms of Light expand like flowers ; 
There, ’t is the rocky coast of Death that towers ; 

Here, on the shoals. Life must its lighthouse keep. 
Who is it that vague terror thus empowers 
Below the dream-waves of the sea of Sleep ? 


86 


^ Strag Ucoekr. 


On shore all day I find slight fellowship, 

But in those surges fain would plunge and hide ; 
Those depths hold joys that none above outstrip. 

Perchance — I cannot choose what shall betide — 
Friend flown afar I clasp, dread foe deride. 

Forget that sorrow all my heart devours. 

Avenge the wrongs that Fate upon me showers. 

Not my control can lift the tide at neap, 

Nor quell its rise. Who thus my will deflours 
Below the dream-waves of the sea of Sleep ? 

ENVOY. 

Archangels, princes, thrones, dominions, powers ! 
Which of ye dwarf the centuries to hours. 

Or swell the moments into eons’ sweep? 

Is it the Prince of Darkness, then , who cowers 
Below the dream-waves of the sea of Sleep? 

I was full of indecision and fear about 
looking behind the screen, but, at last, I did 
look — ” 

Her voice failed. I gave her some wine 
“ What did you think you saw?” 

Think! XsawW^ 

*^What?” 

Don’t ask me!” she cried, shuddering. 
** I cannot describe it. Can you imagine the 
aspect of a corpse, long dead, mouldering, 
luminous, all blue light, and threads and tatters 
of its burial robe? O God, save us!” Her 
glance rested on the mantel. “ I will not keep 


^ Strag Umlcr. 


87 


that rope. I will not! I will not ! Curses on 
him and his memory!** 

She snatched down the glass case, broke it, 
and flung the rope in the grate. We watched 
it as the fire consumed it and for a few mo- 
ments held its charred outlines as it had fallen 
in a distinct semblance of a closed hand with 
index-finger pointing toward the screen I Our 
eyes met above it. Do poets and artists 
possess an extra sense?** she muttered, grasp- 
ing my arm in awe. 

‘‘But the property ! ** I stammered in sudden 
alarm. “ What will you do without that?** 

“ No one need know at present of this con- 
flagration. I will lock up and go abroad. I 
will start to-morrow 1 ** 

Just then we heard the voices of Dacre and 
Chartram in the hall. We stared at each 
other in dismay. “They must not come 
here!** she cried, and hurrying toward the 
next room disappeared behind the screen. 
The next instant a blood-curdling shriek rang 
through the room, rooting me to the spot where 
I stood. Before I knew anything more, Dacre 
and Chartram were standing by me, asking 
what was the matter. I could not speak. 
Weighed down by a sense of dread, I could 
only point to the screen. As they turned it 


88 


^ Stras Hetjeler. 


aside, throwing another part of the room into 
shadow, the picture vanished in gloom, but 
the room took a more picturesque aspect. 
The door ajar showed, across the narrow hall, 
the open door where the merry-makers paused, 
leaning forward with startled faces and anx- 
ious gestures. Aura was lying full length on 
the carpet, dead ! Her face was full of terror. 
Was it only a shadow, that livid line around 
her neck as if she had been strangled? As 
we turned away in horror, Dacre uttered a cry 
of surprise, and touching Chartram, pointed 
to the vacant space on the mantel. 

‘‘The rope?^’ they cried with one voice, 
like the chorus to a tragic opera. 

“ She had just burned it,’’ I stammered. 

They looked at each other. “ Did she fur- 
nish Penniel with the means to destroy her?” 
Dacre asked Chartram. 

“ Tell me,” I begged, ‘‘ what is the mystery 
of that rope?” 

There was a moment’s delay. Then Chart- 
ram gave the startling reply : “It was the one 
with which Penniel hung himself.” 


THE NIGHT BEFORE THE 
WEDDING. 







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I i 







THE NIGHT BEFORE THE 
WEDDING 


Etching. 


"Anyone may dream.”— Po/wA Jew, 


Mother, Eh ! What? John, I ’m glad you 
woke me. 

Crying, was I? 

Oh! it seemed as if I had married Seth 
instead of you. Yet it was bitter to lose the 
years that you and I have been dear to each 
other. May our girl be half as happy ! 

Father, There, there, Ann I All have hard 
trials in sleep as well as out. Strange truths 
show there, and masks fall. I was dreaming, 
too. (Sighs.) I wonder what became of my 
old sweetheart Jane I 

Bride, His friend ! Urge not. Your eyes 
are kind. You would be gentle, tender. I 
should adore you ! I only dreamed that I was 
bound. I dare go to the world’s end, the 
fartherest star, you — yet I tremble 


91 


92 Nigljt Before tl)e IXIebMng. 


Best Man. My shy darling! He is too 
fierce, but / — why, the whole grand universe 
shaped toward our blissful meeting ! Fear not, 
you and Love and I part never, but, still pil- 
grims three, shall pass to Paradise. 

Bridesmaid. I wept for this! To be, if 
once only, folded to your heart, your fond lips 
on mine ! My soul’s great deep reflects alone 
your face ! I could kill myself to keep it there 
— not know you hers ! She care as you de- 
serve? I worship you ! Her right is not like 
mine. 

Bridegroom. You draw me as by a spell. 
Before your eyes’ fire the world I knew melts 
into nothingness! Life was a milk-and-por- 
ridge nursery rhyme ! Now first grown to my 
full stature, with the strength, the will of a 
god, I defy earth, hell, and heaven ! Come ! 

Servant. (To another as they wake with 
a start.) Gone to be married, but changed 
about ! I saw them. I was not asleep ! I heard 
them ; I got up and looked through the crack 
of the door. Downstairs went one couple at 
a time. Queer-looking — like spirits! 

Watch-dog. They came out. Where did 
they go? Dust rises in the road as from car- 
riages rolling off opposite ways. (Roused.) 
Two o’clock and a full moon. (Suddenly bay- 


Nigljt Before tl)e tBebbing. 93 


ing.) Powers of Air ! whom dull man doubts, 
/see you! I know your work — tangling 
sleepers’ thoughts with luring, mocking, heart- 
rending hints of What Might Be 1 








THE DRAMATIC IN MY DESTINY. 



THE DRAMATIC IN MY DESTINY. 


** Who shall say, ‘ I stand I ' nor fall ? 
Destiny is over all.” 


PROLOGUE. 

‘‘Alcohol is for the brutish body, opium for 
the divine spirit,” said Tong-ko-lin-sing, as he 
lighted the lamp. “ The bliss from wine grows 
and wanes as the body has its time of growth 
and loss, but that from opium stays at one 
height, as the soul knows no youth nor age.” 
He brought the jar of black paste, rounded up 
by layer on layer of poppy petals. “ Opium 
soothes, collects, is the friend alike of rich or 
poor. It has power to prove to the sinner that 
his soul is pure, and make the unhappy forget ; 
it reverses all unpleasant things, like the pho- 
nograph playing a piece of music backward.” 
He handed me the pipe — flute-like, fit instru- 
ment for the divine music of Dreamland, though 
clumsy bamboo — the earthen bowl with the 
rich coloring of much smoking, like a China- 
man himself. “Dead faces look on us, and 


97 


98 ®l)e dramatic in iHg JDestinji. 


dead voices call, for the soul then gains its full 
stature, can mix with the immortals, and 
does; when alone and in silence, it can know 
that Time and Space have no bounds.’^ He 
took a wire, which he dipped in the jar and 
held in the flame. Strangest of all is the 
power of opium to form as well as repeat, 
even from odds and ends in our minds. There 
are herbs which inspire, those which destroy, 
and those which heal. The Siberian fungus 
benumbs the body, and not the mind; the Him- 
alayan and the New Granadan thorn-apple 
brings spectral illusions ; why should there not 
be those which may cast prophetic spells?’^ 
The few drops of the paste clinging to the 
wire bubbled and burned. He smeared it on 
the rim of the pipe-bowl. ** Opium has the 
power of a god; it can efface or renew the 
Past, and ignore or foretell the Future.’^ 

I drew three or four whiffs of whitish 
smoke ; the bowl was empty. Again he went 
through the long course of filling. ** Though 
it bring dream within dream, like our Chinese 
puzzles — mark their meaning, for our Chinese 
saying is, ‘ The world’s nonsense is the sense 
of God!”’ 

I heard. 1 knew him for my queer teacher 
of Chinese, who knew French, English, and 


^\)C JDramatic in iHg JUiJstins. 99 


Sanscrit as well, whom I was wont to muse 
over here in ‘^Chinatown,” as over a relic, 
until oppressed with thought of the age of his 
country, until San Francisco seemed a town 
built of a child’s toy-houses, and ours but a 
gadfly race. I knew the room, with its odd 
urns and vases, fans and banners, some of the 
last with stain which shows the baptism of 
human blood, given to make them lucky in 
war; the china and bronze gods, ugly and im- 
possible as nightmare visions; the table, with 
lamp and pot of tar-like paste, my Chinese 
grammar, and paper and ink; the other table, 
with its jar of sweetmeats, covered with clas- 
sical quotations, basket of queer soft-shelled 
nuts, and bottle of Sam-Shoo rice-brandy ; the 
much-prized gift, a Lianchau coffin, standing 
up in the corner ; the mantelpiece, with Tong- 
ko-lin-sing’s worn lot of books, where the 
great poet, Lintsehen, leaned on Shakspeare, 
Sakuntala stood beside Paul and Virginia^ 
Robinson Crusoe nudged Confucius and Hiou- 
enthsang, and Cinderella sat on Laotse; and 
hanging above them a great dragon-kite which 
would need a man to control it. I knew the 
Chinese lily, standing in the pebbles at the 
bottom of a bowl of clear water on the window- 
sill, by a globe of gold-fish; and, beyond. 


loo 2^1)^ JDramatic in iHg JDeatins. 


the Oriental street (for it was in the region 
bounded by Kearny, Stockton, Sacramento, 
and Pacific streets, where fifty thousand aliens 
make an alien city, a city as Chinese as Pe- 
king, except for buildings and landscape, and 
not unlike the narrow, dirty, thronged streets, 
with dingy brick piles, of Shanghai); the caf^ 
across the way, with green lattice-work, and 
gilding, and gay colors in its gallery; the lot- 
tery-man next door, setting in order his little 
black book covered with great spots like blood ; 
the rattle of dice coming from the half-open 
basement next to us ; the cries of stray ven- 
ders of sweetmeats ; no sound of any language 
but the Chinese passionless drone, too cramped 
for all the changes of life’s emotions, with its 
accent unswerving as Fate ; the only women 
among the passers-by shuffling along with stiff 
outworks of shining hair, bright with tinsel 
and paper flowers, and wide sleeves waving 
like bat-wings, broad fans, spread umbrellas, 
and red silk handkerchiefs — sometimes in one 
of these a baby slung over its mother’s back, 
perhaps one less gayly dressed tottered on 
goat-feet between two girls who held her up ; 
little children like gaudy butterflies in green 
and gold, purple and scarlet, crimson and 
white, — boys in gilt-fringed caps, girls with 


dramatic in iHg mestinj}. 


lOI 


hair gummed into spread sails, and decked 
like their elders ; an endless line of dark, mys- 
terious forms, with muffling blouse and flaunt- 
ing queue, the rank, poisonous undergrowth 
in our forest of men. I was idly aware of all 
this. I knew that I, Yorke Rhys, quite care- 
free and happy, had nothing to dread. I 
calmly dropped down the tide of sleep — but 
what was this vivid and awful dream — all in 
brighter hues and deeper shadows, and more 
sharply real than Dreamland seems, without 
the magic touches of opium? As if looking in 
a mirror, like the Lady of Shalott, I saw all 
past scenes at once as a great whole. Against 
the mystic gloom of opium everything stood 
out as the night shows the stars ; the soul had 
a mood that could focus All since the making 
of the world, and only then knew how far off, 
fading, stretch the bounds of Time, the untold 
reach of the Universe, which we wrongly 
think we daily see and know. I saw into it 
all as a leader reads an opera-score. I was 
unused to dreaming, being seldom alone and 
without time for long walks, and I wondered 
when my own mind mocked me with odd bits 
it held, jumbled and awry, like my own like- 
ness in rippling water, mostly what I had once 
thought of, but not as I thought it. Past 


102 SDramatic in ills SDiestins. 


events started forth, not as what I had gone 
through with, but as a part of my inner sense, 
with old fancies about passing trifles ; as when 
one, though rapt in some strong feeling, may 
yet mark the number of notes in a bird’s song, 
or of boughs to a tree, or of petals to a flower, 
as if the mind must be double, we think ; but 
in my dream I learned that it is yet more com- 
plex. In the vast poppy fields of Bengal, 
likened to green lakes where lilies bloom, near 
the holy city of Benares, which dates itself 
back to creation, I idly plucked a white blos- 
som on a lonely stalk, and flung it down, when 
it at once changed to a shapeless form, which 
chased me. Then it seemed it had been my 
curse through far-off ages, the frost that 
chilled me when I was a flower, the white cat 
that killed me when I was a bird, the white 
shark that caught me when I was a fish — in 
all places a white cloud between me and my 
sunshine. My horse, in gold armor, thickly 
gemmed, bore me from the field where a silk 
tent held my love, with others of King Ar- 
thur’s court, to a gloomy-raftered cobwebbed 
hall, where shield and battle-axe were given 
me, and soon I wept over the shattered helm 
of one whom I had loved — yet killed. Where 
silver cressets shone behind diamond panes. 


dramatic in ills HJestins. 103 


and dragon-banners flew from gilded turrets of 
my castle, I waited at a postern in the wall for 
a note from my lady-fair, but the pale spectre 
of a scorned lover told me she was dead. 
Through the lapse of ages, over strange lands, 
in old and new-world town or wild, I often lost 
my way, but never the sense of an unseen 
foe. Now, at a masked ball in some old 
palace, where 1 was dogged by a white domino 
with whom I must fight a duel ; then, in the 
red glare of the southern moon in the Arizona 
desert, through stillness overwhelming as 
noise, I fled from a figure hid in a Moqui 
blanket. By huge fires, 1, too, waited the 
coming of Montezuma. 1 was Montezuma, 
held down by weight of the mountain which 
bears his profile at Maricopa Wells. My great 
white shadow flitted after me across the red 
and yellow of Colorado scenery. In the aw- 
ful depths of Gypsum Canon, I gazed in de- 
spair up at the round, well-like heights for 
chance to flee from It. At the Royal Gorge, 
peering from the cliff straight down for over 
two thousand feet, I gladly saw It at the base. 
Eased, I stood on a mountain-top, where, as I 
turned, I saw the four seasons — most wonder- 
ful view that could be brought by a wizard of 
old to a king's windows ; but here I suddenly 


104 JDramatic in itts JUestinji. 


found a white mist that turned as I did, and 
strove to shape itself to my form. Crossing 
the plains of Nevada, It was the white dust 
which choked and blinded me from sight of 
the pink and purple mist-veiled peaks. In a 
Mexican mine, at a shrine to the Virgin, cut in 
the rock where her lamp glowed through last- 
ing night. It was the large white bead of my 
rosary of Job’s Tears, which took my thoughts 
from prayer and broke my vows. Again, It 
was the mirage of Arizona midnights or noons, 
and I was one of the coyotes who leave their 
holes to howl. It was a spectre that strove to 
burden me with the secret of the pre-historic 
ruins of the Casa Grande. It brooded as a 
mist over the Colorado River while I hid in its 
depths — a corpse — as if it might be my ghost. 
Here I could have been safe, since that stream 
does not give up its dead, but as a small bird 1 
was forced to cross a wide sea, chased through 
days and nights by a great white gull. Lost 
in the jungle of a Chinese forest, I suddenly 
came to a clearing where beetle and glow- 
worm were staking out a grave for some one 
near and dear to me, whose death I could not 
hinder. 1 watched until they began to mark a 
second grave — oh, for whom? But I was torn 
from this sight, and thrust in the heart of a 


JUramatic in ^Dcsting. 105 


Chinese city. I wound through its crooked 
streets to a dark flight of steps, which came to 
an end; no rail, no step, darkness before I 
could get quite down ; and I was again creep- 
ing from the top of a like staircase. Over and 
over 1 tried to go down these vanishing stairs. 
At last, 1 was faced suddenly, as if he sprang 
through a trap-door, by a huge white form 
that tried to tell me something, some strange 
fact linked with my fate, which would explain 
a secret that had long chafed me. But what? 
I shook with fear — Tong-ko-lin-sing spoke to 
me. 1 woke. My first glance fell on the pure, 
sweet-scented lily, calm and fair, in its clear, 
glass-bowl, and the relief was so great that 
tears sprang to my eyes. 


ACT I. 

** ‘Was it not Fate, whose name is also Sor- 
row?’ ” said Elinor. 

We were looking at Randolph Rogers’s 
“Lost Pleiad,” in the inner room of Morris & 
Schwab’s picture-store. 

“No,” said 1, kindling at a glance from her 
fine eyes; “Fate is well named when in one’s 
favor, but cannot be truly against one. I 
could master it; so could others. Man rules 


io6 @:i)e JUramatic in iHg 


his own life — it need not depend on others — 
he gains what he strives for, and need never 
yield to evil forces.’^ 

Then you have no pity for the man who 
killed another here yesterday?” 

‘‘ None. That is the worst of crimes. I 
respect the Brahmins, who hold life sacred 
even in an insect. No. Heaven may keep 
me from other sin — 1 will hold myself from 
murder.” 

‘‘Your friend, Noel Brande, does not think 
as you do.” 

“No; but he gains his wishes because he 
is brave enough to try and fight what he calls 
doom.” 

“ That is not the only point on which you 
differ.” 

“ No; but we are too fond of each other to 
quarrel.” 

“ Even Fate could not break your friend- 
ship?” 

“ Never. I defy it.” 

“ It is as good as a fortune to be sure of 
one’s self,” she said, looking at me for an in- 
stant with such approval that I was bewitched 
enough to have spoken my love if others had 
not come in, and we soon strolled home. 

Her shy, brief glances stirred my brain like 


^Dramatic in iHg iDesting. 107 


wine. Was it true that the woman who could 
look long in a man’s eyes could not love him? 
I sighed with joy. I was in the gay mood 
which the Scotch think comes just before ill 
luck. It had been a very happy day. I had 
taken her to drive in the Park in the morning ; 
I had found her in the picture-store in the 
afternoon. As we went up our boarding-house 
steps, I felt that the world was made for me. 
As she passed through the storm-door before 
me, I stayed for mere lightness of heart to 
drop a gold piece in the apron of Nora, the 
neat Irish nurse-girl, sitting outside with Eli- 
nor’s little cousins. Elinor had glided so far 
alone that Si-ki, coming toward her with a 
card that had been left for her, did not see 
me. I watched him, thinking of what Nora 
had told of his skill in making melon-seed 
fowls, and carving flowers from vegetables, 
and of her dislike for his hue — “like an old, 
green copper,” she said. He did have an odd 
sort of tea-color to his skin, not unlike that of 
morphine-lovers, but I thought he looked no 
worse than Nora, with her face like a globe- 
fish. Elinor, with hand on the newel, paused 
to look at the card. Amazed and angry, I saw 
Si-ki dare to lay his hand on hers, saying ; 

“Nicey! Nicey!” 


io8 ®l)e JBratnatic in iHg ?3Destinj). 


Elinor’s hand — that I had not yet held but 
as any one might, in a dance, or to help her 
from a carriage! The sight filled me with 
such rage, that, just as I would have brushed 
a gnat out of the world, I sprang on Si-ki and 
began beating him. I was in such fury that 1 
scarcely knew when Elinor and Nora fled, or 
that the French lady hung over the railing up- 
stairs, in her white frilled wrapper, with but 
one of her diamond sparks in her ears, and 
her hair half dressed, crying to heaven ; that 
the Spanish lady stood in the parlor-door, clap- 
ping her hands; that the German professor 
opening his door, the Italian merchant running 
down-stairs, the English banker, the American 
-broker, and my friend Brande, coming in from 
the street, all tried to stop me. 

Keep back! It is a matter between us 
two!” I answered them all. ‘‘Between us 
two!” timing my blows to my words. I 
thrashed him till my cane snapped in two. 
“ Between us two ! ” I turned him out. “ Be- 
tween us two!” I cried, and flung him down 
the steps. “ Between us two ! ” 1 muttered to 
myself as I went up-stairs to my room, with a 
passing glimpse of Elinor, disturbed and blush- 
ing, in the doorway of her aunt’s room. She 
did not come to dinner. The foreign boarders 


QLije IllJramatic in iHg lUestinB. 109 


were shocked or excited ; the others amused or 
unmoved; the landlady was vexed. I was 
filled with shame to have spent so much force 
and feeling on such a wretch, and to have dis- 
tressed Elinor by setting all these tongues in 
motion about her ; to think that I, Yorke Rhys, 
high-born and high-bred, should have deigned 
to so beat a creature of no more worth in the 
world than a worm. But, as I told Brande 
that night in my room, I had a strange dislike 
for Si-ki. 

‘‘He was too cat-like,” I said, “with his 
grave air, his slyness and soft tread, his self- 
contained cunning.” 

“Yes,” said Brande; “our rough classes 
are like the larger kind of beast ; those of the 
Chinese are like rats and gophers — the timid, 
wiry, alert creatures who pose on their hind- 
legs in nursery-tale pictures.” 

“ They look like a child’s drawing on a 
slate,” I said; “outlines of a man, in square- 
cut robes.” 

“But that Chinese teacher of yours is 
worse,” said he; “dark as if the gloom of 
ages had taken man’s shape, with as still 
motion, locked behind his reserve, as if cased 
in mail. It is like dealing with ghost or 
sphinx.” 


no lUramatic in itts UDi^stins. 


“He shows the effect of inherited civiliza- 
tion,” said I; “dignified, priestly, close- 
mouthed as if his millions of ancestors in him 
frowned at me as one of a short-lived race — a 
sort of Mormon-fly with its life of one night.” 

“ He and the Chinese grammar both would 
be too much for me to meet,” said Brande. 

“ But they have each their charm,” I said. 
“ The grammar shows the hidden working of 
the mind, the laws of thought.” 

“That early hieroglyphic you told me 
about,” said he, “of folding-doors and an ear, 
which meant *to listen,^ shows the same law 
of thought that our landlady has. What hid- 
den force let her have only raw coolies for 
months after she sent off a trained servant for 
his thefts? We hear of their ‘high-binders’ 
and other secret societies. You have not 
known the last of that cur you whipped.” 

“ Pshaw ! I soon start for China, anyway,” 
said I — “glad of the pay promised me there 
for three years, and tired of roughing it in 
Nevada, Colorado, and Arizona; but I wish — 
I wish I could have had a chance with your 
friends on California street.” 

“ I wish you had,” he said; “but never 
mind. You will have gained the Chinese lan- 
guage, and, judging by your feat of to-day,. 


(EIjc JUramatir in ittg 


1 1 1 


the Chinamen had better not cross your path. 
Was it for this we moved to this house of 
seven gabbles?” 

“For this,” I answered, glumly. “Why 
did we move?” For we were scarcely settled. 
I came to be near Elinor, and Brande because 
he wished to be with me. 

“There is the cause,” he said, nodding 
toward the window as a gust of wind swept 
by. “ People wonder at the roving impulse of 
the San Franciscans. It is the wind which 
urges and compels them to arise and go ; it has 
even driven me to try and mock the monotone 
of its chant.” 

He took from his pocket and read to me 
these lines : 

THE WIND! THE WIND! THE WIND! 

Refrain, refrain, O wind! from such complaining. 

Or deign at last to make thy murmurs sane. 

Explain, explain thy pathos ever paining — 

Thy vain desire torments and tires my brain. 

Refrain ! Refrain ! 

At last reveal how vanished ages freighted 
Thy voices with their added woe and pain ; 

Forbear to mutter — I feel execrated. 

Urge not, for naught impatience can attain. 

Refrain ! Refrain ! 


1 12 dramatic in ills 


At last, at last, cease all thy raging clamor, 

Nor beat and pant against my window-pane. 

I listen now; at last thine eerie hammer 
Mine ear hath welded for thy mystic strain — 

Nay, crouch not nigh with clank of heavy chain. 

Refrain ! Refrain ! 

At last thy blast, whose mocking threat just passed. 
Must feign new breath. What awful secret (lain 

For ages in thy realm of space, too vast 
For thought) shall thy next startling sounds contain? 
I fain would flee— thy sighs constrain. 

Refrain ! Refrain ! 

Insane, far-off, pathetic tones retaining. 

No grain of all that caused them may remain ; 

Again renewing in thy wild campaigning 
The strain of bugles under Charlemagne ; 

Again unearthly voices, summons feigning. 

Ordain the death of Joan of Lorraine; 

Again high shrieks that castle-turrets gaining 
Thrill pain and dread through Cawdor’s haunted 
Thane ; 

Again low sighs (no bliss of love attaining) 

That gain the longing lips of lorn Elayne. 

Mock strain and creak of holiow oak distraining 
Profane magician Merlin in Bretagne. 

Complain — the English peasant’s ear detaining. 
Remain to him the sad song of the Dane. 

Draw rein, O souls of dead ! who ride (retaining 
A train of howling dogs) new souls to gain. 

To vain and vague lament my thought constraining. 

Refrain ! Refrain ! 


dramatic in Mg JUestinB. 113 


Though rain, though sun thine own rapt mood sustain- 
ing 

Of vain regret, no more must thou complain, 

Nor strain to show, in depths and glooms remaining, 
Wild main and reefs that wrecked, old days of pain. 
Disdain, deride no more, my whole thought gaining 
With skein of subtle hints that are my bane ; 

Of rain that slants athwart mid-ocean plaining 
While train of shadows crosses heaven’s plain, 

No reign of stars, nor moon whose crescent waning 
Might vein the purple dusk with amber stain ; 

Far lane of snow no mortal foot profaning, 

Moraine may lock, or iceberg rent in twain ; 

In chain of peaks, where thunder-clouds are gaining, 
Unslain old echoes rise and roll again — 

Again. Thine incantations oft sustaining 
With strain of distant bells that chimes maintain 
Ingrain with melancholy, hope quite draining. 

Like plaintive fall of castles built in Spain. 

O’erlain with laugh and yell and sob complaining, 

The train of sound is broken, scattered, slain. 
Regain, constrain to far and further waning — 

Refrain ! Refrain ! 

How reign such fancies? By thy weird ordaining, 

Or lain amid the fibres of my brain ? 

The vane of thought turned by thy mournful plaining, 
Shrill strain of days remote and love long slain. 
Shows plain inheritance of grief pertaining 
To train of ancestors whose acts enchain — 

Old pain, far peaks of woe chill heights attaining, 
Faint stain of ancient crime starts out amain. 

The bane, the burden of Unrest remaining 
Through wane of ages though no clue is plain ; 


1 14 JHIratnatic in ills SD^stinn. 


Old vein volcanic, quicksands cruel feigning, 

Or main in tumult as chance gales constrain, 

My brain-palimpsest but dim trace containing. 

Made plain, O Wind ! when thy fierce cries arraign. 

Refrain ! Refrain ! 

As he ceased, the wind, which had thrust in 
its undertone of sympathy, rose so strongly 
that the house trembled like a boat, and in the 
close, creeping fog we might have been far out 
at sea, for any sign to be seen of the city be- 
low us. We sat in silence, broken suddenly 
by a quick, urgent knocking. Brande opened 
the door. Elinor’s aunt stood there, looking 
wild. Without heeding him, she called to me : 

‘‘How could you do it? Why did you do 
it?” 

“ Because he insulted her,” I stammered. 

“ He has done worse now ! ” she said. 

“What do you mean?” asked Brande, while 
1 stood in speechless wonder. 

“ I mean,” said she, still looking at me, 
“that Nora brought some Chinese sweetmeats 
that she said you had sent Elinor, but it seems 
they were given her by Si-ki.” 

“ By Si-ki ! ” we both cried. 

“ With word that they were what you had 
once promised to get for her.” 

“ Well?” 1 gasped. 


®I)e ^Dramatic in iil^ JDcstinji. 115 


‘‘ Elinor, poor girl, at once tasted them — ” 
‘‘And — ” 

“ — and now lies senseless! 

“ Great heavens 1 ” cried Brande, turning to 
me. “ Poisoned?^* 

“ Poisoned ! I moaned. 


ACT II. 

Chased by Brande as by a shadow, I in 
turn tracked two policemen, through a net- 
work of horror like a nightmare — through the 
foreign city in the heart of San Francisco, like 
a clingstone in its peach. In single file, drop- 
ping story below story under the sidewalks, 
we slipped and stumbled in mildew, damp, and 
dirt, where the coolies flitted round like gnomes, 
where no window let in light, no drain bore off 
bad air. We searched narrow galleries run- 
ning everywhere, often bridging each other 
like those of an ant-hill, and dark ways where 
but one could pass. We bent at doorways 
that barred our path at sudden turns, peered 
into vile dens that lined the way, and, choking 
and strangling, climbed above ground, where 
we scanned the thousands of workmen in the 
many boot and shoe factories and cigar-works ; 
hunted through the numberless gambling-hells, 


ii6 HJramatic in iHg JUestins. 


but could not pass the old watchman, with 
wrinkled face like a baked apple, sitting on a 
stool in front of a red curtain (the color for 
luck), before he jerked the cord dangling near 
him, when bells warned, doors were barred, 
bolts shot like lightning, door upon door sud- 
denly thrust itself across our path, or a screen 
slyly slid before us, turning us unaware into 
another passage. In this way, through secret 
signs, the whole ground-plan of a building 
would shift and dupe like a mirage. We might 
at last find a group of men merely talking, 
with neither dice, domino, dragon, or demon- 
pictured parchment card, button, nor brass 
ring, in sight — no copper with square centre 
hole, nor other trace of Fan-Tan; or find such 
utter darkness that fear seized us and drove us 
out. We viewed their pent, full workshops 
and boarding-houses, each story refloored once 
or twice between the first floor and ceiling, and 
their lodgings where they are shelved in tiers. 
We tried to find their courts of justice, but 
found secret laws within our laws, like puzzle 
in puzzle, and all in charge of the six-headed 
chief power, the strong Six Companies, from 
whose joint decree there is no appeal. All 
hedged from us by a Great Wall — of their 
language, for what I heard spoken was not the 


lIDraniatic in i^B JH^stinB. 117 


written language I had learned from books — 
and of their ways, formed by such long, slow 
growth that it is the soul of their past ages 
which still lives — it is the same Chinese who 
lived before the flood who watch us now. 
Worn out, Brande and I started for home, but 
on the way stopped to see Tong-ko-lin-sing. 
He had been playing chess with his friend Si 
Hung Chang, who left as we went in, and he 
packed the chessmen in their box while he 
heard our tale, but said nothing. His face was 
a clear blank when Brande asked about secret 
societies. I tried all forms of begging and urg- 
ing I could think of. He would not know what 
we meant. He offered us cigars, and took his 
pipe, as if he wished us to go — his own pipe, 
with a small tube on one side, in which to burn 
an opium-pill. Too dear to him to trust in the 
hands of a ‘‘foreign devil, I had not been 
given a chance to touch it. Brande laid a 
large gold-piece on the table. Tong-ko-lin-sing 
smiled, wavered, but sank back into grave 
silence. Brande poured forth a stream of 
abuse. Tong-ko-lin-sing, bland and deaf, eyed 
his Lianchau coifin with pride, and fell into 
deep thought. I opened the door, and signed 
to Brande to follow me. He did so, swearing 
at the whole Chinese race as sly fools. We 


ii8 ®I)e JUratnatic in iHg JUcsting. 


were half-way downstairs, when Tong-ko-lin- 
sing shuffled out on the landing and called after 
us, the English words having a queer effect of 
centred force when intoned like Chinese : 

“ Red-haired devils ! barbarians ! all of you ! 
Like bears beating their stupid heads against 
the Great Wall. Are the black-haired people 
not your betters? Great in mind as in num- 
bers, did we not make paper and ink, and 
print, a thousand years before your time? — 
and travel by a compass more than twenty- 
five hundred years before your Christ?’* He 
shuffled back, but swung out again to add: 
‘‘ Do we not excel in dyes, in sugar, in porce- 
lain, gunpowder, and fireworks?” He started 
toward his room, but turned back to cry: 
‘‘Think of our secrets in the working of 
metals, our triumphs in the casting of bells, 
our magic mirrors which reflect what is 
wrought on their backs!” He seemed to 
have really done this time, but stopped in his 
door for this boast: “Look at our silk, cot- 
ton, linen, engraved wood and iron, carved 
ivory, bronze antiques, fine lacquer-work! 
We make as brilliant figures in the universe 
as our rare colors on our famous pith-paper ! ” 
His grand air struck Brande as so absurd that 
in his nervous excitement he laughed. Tong- 





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UUramatic in illQ iBestinji. 119 


ko-lin-sing darted out again, shaking his fore- 
finger at us, as if in the Chinese game of Fi-fi, 
or like our Fie ! for shame ! ** 

‘‘You foreign devils would be wiser than 
your forefathers. You care nothing for the 
sages of old. What do you know of our three 
thousand rules and forms? You need a tri- 
bunal like ours at Peking, a Board of Rites! ” 
Going through his door, he called over his 
shoulder: “What is your poor country? Not 
fit for our graves ! To be happy on earth one 
must be born in Suchow, live in Canton, and 
die in Lianchau. T-r-r-r! Begone!” 

I had gone back a few steps, and could see 
into his room. I heard a chuckle as his wide 
sleeve swept carelessly over the table as he 
went by it. He passed on. There was no 
money there. 

“Who could have foreseen such a lecture 
from a jumping-jack in brocade drawers, tight 
to the ankle, and a loose blouse?” said Brande, 
as we hurried home. “ He has the wholly 
irresponsible air of a clothier’s sign-suit swing- 
ing in the wind, but he knows the points of the 
compass ! ” 

We found Elinor seemed to have changed 
for the worse and still senseless. After Brande 
left me 1 sat in my window, too sad and too 


120 lUramatic in iHg 


tired to go to rest. 1 saw Goat Island loom 
large, but blurred by fog, like Heine’s phan- 
tom isle, faint in the moonshine, where mists 
danced and sweet tones rang, but the lovers 
swam by, unblest, off into the wide sea. 
Elinor and I, too, had touched no isle of bliss, 
but passed comfortless into a sea of uncer- 
tainty which might widen into eternity. Sweet 
as it had been to be on the brink of owning our 
love, what would I not have given now to have 
some fond words? — even but one kiss, to re- 
call in time to come if — I could not think of 
such a loss. I lighted my room, and tried to 
read or write, but in vain. I only thought of 
her. “ Oh 1 ” I groaned, “ if I could have had 
some proof that she loved me!” As I sat, I 
saw in a long mirror the door behind me open, 
and — Elinor come! In misty white trailing 
robe, she looked unreal. Could it be, I 
thought, that they had left her alone to leave 
her room in a trance? A thrill of joy shot 
through me that she should even uncon- 
sciously come straight to me. I sprang to my 
feet and turned toward her — to find I was 
alone! I sank again in my chair. Was I 
losing my wits? No — she was there — there 
in the mirror, looking at me with the deepest 
woe in her face ! She reached her arms to- 


^Dramatic in ilXg iDestinj). 


I2I 


ward me, as if she longed to embrace me, and 
looked so sorry, so sorry for me. 

“ Did I stay with Tong-ko4in-sing, and 
take opium again?** 1 murmured. 

She made a gesture of farewell and half 
turned to go. 

‘‘Elinor! Elinor!** I cried. 

A spasm of grief crossed her face. Filled 
with wonder, sorrow, and surprise, I rose 
again, but she made a motion of despair and 
left the room before 1 could turn. Did she go? 
Was she there, or was my brain wild? My 
own shadov/, crossing the ceiling toward the 
door as I moved, startled me. Had I not read 
of the ill-will between shadows and the beings 
that live in mirrors? Mad I should surely be 
if I stayed longer alone ; yet I opened the door 
most unwillingly. The dim hall was still and 
vacant. I went to Elinor*s door. Her aunt 
said for the last half-hour they had not felt 
sure she was not dead, but there had just 
come back signs of life ; they could see that 
she breathed again. The doctor had slight 
hope. She gave me a slip of paper covered 
with Elinor*s dainty penciling. 

“ I found that in Elinor*s pocket,** she said, 
‘ ‘ in the dress she wore when out with you 
yesterday. I thought you would like to read 


122 QLijc dramatic in iHg HJesting. 


it,” And the grim, old woman really looked 
with pity at me. 

I wrung her hand, and rushed to my room to 
read : 

THE LOST PLEIAD. 

'^Merope mortalis nupsit.'* 

Spellbound, by planet that I fain would spurn, 

To circle like the forms in poet’s soul. 

Like them for starry heights to madly yearn, 

Yet feel the tension of the Earth’s control. 

And ever drifting seem 

Like blossom floating down restraining stream. 

Through vast cloud-spaces, up and down I wheel. 
While years, like vagrant winds, shift far below? 
The stillness of the upper air I feel 
Is like the rest the immortals ever know. 

Here I forget how man 

Through haste and strife his life can merely plan. 

His life, like that reflected in a glass, 

Knows not the sweep of that among the gods — 

Has its set limits that he may not pass 
Except he vow himself to Art’s long odds. 

And Sorrow’s eyes of woe 
Must some time fix on each with baleful glow. 

More wise than man the acts of Nature are — 

The little dewdrop pearling twilight leaf 
Will take unto its inmost heart a star 
Which mortals give but careless glance and brief. 

Nor heed when slants the sun 
What mystic signs gleam red, gold clouds upon. 


®I)e JUratnatic in iUn HJcstinn. 123 


Forlorn, I fail forever Pleiad height — 

Float downward just above the phantom realm 
Where Fame and Beauty, Love and Power, take flight. 
Fate ever whirling after to o’erwhelm. 

See rise the Day’s bold crown. 

Or muifled Night with stolen stars slink down . 

With slow pulse poise while moonless midnights pass. 
And vivid on the velvet dark is lain. 

By memory painted, that sweet time — alas ! — 

When yet I knew, as nymph in Dian’s train. 

The gods, the stars, the tides. 

The sylvan fauns and satyrs — naught besides. 

Not for the goddess, stag, and hunt, I sigh- 
Nor for my sister Pleiades above. 

As for the blissful moments long gone by 
In rapture and despair of mortal love. 

This is the potent spell 

Which sends me drifting down the cloud-sea swell ! 

“It cannot be!” I cried, with bursting 
heart. “ Our drama is not ended. Some- 
where, some time, it must go on, even though 
she passes now behind the green curtain of a 
grassy grave ! ” 


ACT III. 

The next day found no change in Elinor, 
and found us again with the policemen, hunt- 
ing Chinatown. Standing on corners while a 
drove of coolies passed, crowding and bleating 


124 JDramatic in JOestins. 


like sheep, or the din of funeral music jarred 
on our nerves; down in cellars, damp and 
green and gloomy as sea-caves, and the roar of 
the city overhead not unlike that of the sea ; 
up on roofs as cheerless to live on as leafless 
trees, but full of coolies, like chattering mon- 
keys — no jungle of a Chinese forest less fit 
for human life. And through it all I was 
haunted by thoughts of happy hours I had 
passed with Elinor, which came back like 
scenes in another life, as if I had already gone 
down to hell — dewy garden-alleys with foun- 
tains and whispering shrubs, blossoms and 
bird-songs, radiance, bloom and sweet scent, 
all that gave a charm to life — unlike this foul 
quarter as a perfect poem to vile doggerel, 
music to discord, light to dark. One China- 
man we saw everywhere ; on a corner across 
the way; at the head of steps as we were 
coming up ; at the foot of the stairs when we 
were on a roof; bowing at a shrine with gold 
and saffron legends and scarlet streamers round 
the door, and through the dim inner light and 
scent of burning sandal-wood, the gleam of 
tinsel and flare of lamp, before an ugly image ; 
in one of what Brande called their chop-(stick)- 
houses, feasting on shark's-fin or bird’s-nest 
soup ; watching a group in a wash-house who 


JUramatic in JUestins. 125 


play Fi-fi to see who shall pay for a treat of 
tea; in a barber-shop, among those undergoing 
dainty cleansing of eyes, ears, and nostrils, 
trimming and penciling of eyebrows and 
lashes ; or at a market-stall (kept in the win- 
dow of some other kind of shop), haggling for 
pork, or fish, or fowl — its only stock; always 
in the background of our scene, even in the 
theatre, watching the ground and lofty tum- 
bling, until the crowd and noise and bad air 
forced us to leave, when, as I came out last of 
our party, I nearly fell over him. 

“ Tong-ko-lin-sing ! ** 

‘‘Why all this trouble for a woman?’’ he 
asked, gravely. “Women are plenty, for to 
become one is a future punishment of ours for 
sin when men. I have seen her with you; 
she wore the tiger’s-claw jewelry you got 
through me. Like most American women, she 
would not make a ‘mother of Meng,’ our wise 
woman, who has passed into a proverb. Then 
she wore black, which is ill-luck for body and 
mind.” 

Nothing could have better set off Elinor’s 
golden hair and fresh daisy-bloom than the 
soft laces and black velvet she had so often 
worn beside me at concert or play. I could 
almost see her again with me at the thought. 


126 ilDratnatic in ills SDestinji. 


I drew a deep sigh. Where is Si-ki?’^ I 
cried, making a vain clutch at Tong-ko-lin- 
sing’s sleeve. But the others had turned back 
for me, and my Chinese teacher’s jacket and 
cap of black astrakhan fur soon melted into 
the darkness of some too near alley. Had he 
followed us all day from mere curiosity, or 
could he help us? We went to his door, but 
knocked in vain, though we all saw a line of 
light under his door as we went upstairs, not 
there when we came down. Disheartened, 
we went home. Elinor had not changed. We 
could not try to sleep, but sat in my room. 

“ 1 wish,” said Brande, you looked as full 
of life and joy as you did the last time I saw 
you come home with Miss Elinor.” 

” O Noel ! ” I cried, ” if I could but live over 
that last happy day, when to see her by me 
was thrilling as music, when to breathe the 
same air was exciting as wine ! ” 

Like Socrates under the plane-tree,” he 
mused, “ ‘borne away by a divine impression 
coming from this lovely place.’ ” 

“Yes,” I said; “life was all changed, my 
soul was no more pent by bodily bounds, my 
eyes saw everything by an inner light which 
made all fair.” 

“That reminds me,” said he, “of some 


®I)e JUramatic in iltg 127 


verses about the picture over Miss Elinor’s 
piano.” 

He searched his note-book, found, and read : 

AN INTERLUDE. 

Tall candles and a wood-fire’s fitful burning 
Seem like a spell to conjure from the wall 
One picture’s living eyes, which, though returning 
To shadows that engulf, hold me in thrall. 

Against the wall a sad musician leaning 
Across the strings has lain caressing bow. 

But pauses for some thought that intervening 
Yet holds him waiting, listening so. 

As if of life so near, yet far on-flowing, 

Some consciousness had thrilled and made him know 
And long to step into the circle, showing 
Such charmdd one within the hearth-fire’s glow. 

My life, like his, is picturesque, transcending 
What can be felt, or heard, or seen, except 
When passing flashes of emotion, lending 
Some added senses, over me have swept. 

More sad, more glad, and more enchanting — 

And my existence may to angels seem 
Like that of phantom through dim vapors flaunting. 
Forever near some vague, elusive dream. 

Perchance they mark me pause and look and listen. 

In some bright moment’s exaltation brief. 

As if, though circling shadows oft imprison. 

My music waits but for a turning leaf ! 


128 dramatic in ills SDestins. 


‘“Spirits in prison, said I; “where do 
you think they go when first set free? — to 
another world, or to the dearest friend in 
this?’* 

“ That would depend,” he answered, “upon 
the kind of spirit that goes. One like Miss 
Elinor now — ” 

“Do not speak of her death,” I cried; 
“though I have thought before that you did 
not like her.” 

“ No,” said he, “ I do not, but with no rea- 
son. It is a mere feeling that repels, and did 
at first sight, lovely as she is. I need not 
speak of her death to say that her spirit is one 
that would — ” 

I started. Elinor had come in at the door 
behind him, and stood looking at me, making 
a sign of caution, as if she did not wish Brande 
to know of her presence. What had brought 
her to my room? She looked very shadowy 
in sweeping, misty robes and floating hair. 
Perhaps she was not in her right mind. I was 
sorely vexed to have Brande see her come to 
me. I had even wild thoughts of blindfolding 
him, while she should have time to flee. 

“What is it?” he asked. “You look as if 
you saw a ghost.” 

“ Nothing,” I faltered. While I wondered 










130 511)^ JiDrainatic in illg CEJ-csting. 


“ Let me go ! ” I panted. 

‘‘ I cannot let you dash your brains out 
against the wall,” he said. 

I made one more vain strain to leave my 
seat. He held me in a grasp of iron. 

‘‘ What shall I do?” he groaned to himself, 
and turned white about the lips, for unseen I 
had made out to draw my pistol from my 
pocket, and now suddenly held it toward him. 

“ Yorke Rhys ! he shouted, but did not let 
go his hold. 

How can I tell it? The room turned black 
to me. Then I found Elinor had fled, and my 
friend lay at my feet with a bullet through his 
heart ! 

1 have a confused remembrance of the board- 
ers rushing in. I knew the glint of the French 
lady’s diamond ear-drops, and the down on her 
opera-cloak, just from the theatre, the wrought 
band of the German professor’s smoking-cap, 
and the palm-leaves on the Spanish lady’s 
cashmere shawl, thrown over her night-robes 
as she came from her bed. They thought 
Brande had shot himself, for 1 sat there 
vaguely asking over and over : 

“ Why did he do it?” 

There was a murmur of “Don’t tell him.” 
The crowd gave way for Elinor’s aunt, who 


^\)c ^Dramatic in iHg SDestin^. 131 


came and laid my head against her breast in 
dear motherly fashion. 

“ What does Elinor want?’* I asked. “She 
has just been here.” 

She only said, “Poor boy!” and smoothed 
my hair. 

Something in their faces smote me with 
dread. “He is out of his head!” they 
whispered. 

“ Tell me,” I urged, “ where is Elinor? She 
was here just now.” 

The Spanish and the French lady looked in- 
quiringly at Elinor’s aunt. I turned my face 
up to hers just in time ere I lost my senses (or 
did that make me faint?) to see her lips shape 
the words : 

“ Elinor died just now ! ” 


ACT IV. 

I lay on my bed, dimly aware of a long, 
slow lapse of time. Was it of weeks, months, 
or years? I could not tell. Sometimes 1 saw 
the sunshine veer round the room, and knew 
day after day passed, but not how many. 
Some of the boarders came and went, to my 
dull senses like visions in dreams: the French 
lady, trim and straight, nodded and twinkled 


132 SJramatic in ills ID^sthts. 


past, whiffs from the German professor’s pipe 
curled near me, the tinkle of the Spanish lady’s 
guitar rang faint and far. Elinor’s aunt had 
often shaken and smoothed my pillow, but I 
did not know why nor how I came to be in 
this weak state of mind and body, and no one 
spoke of it to me even after I could sit up, till 
one day Nora brought me a folded page of 
note-paper, which, she said, fell from my 
clothes when I was undressed the night I 
fainted, and she had kept it for me, ** because 
it had Miss Elinor’s writing on it.” It was 
‘‘The Lost Pleiad.” All my weight of woe 
dropped on me anew. I knew what star had 
fallen from my sky. 

“You kept it for me all this time.?” I said, 
as I gave her some money. “ I suppose I was 
sick some weeks.” 

“ Months,” she answered. 

I sighed. How much in debt such long idle- 
ness and illness must have brought me ! And 
I must have lost my chance for work in China. 
Letters must be written. 1 opened my desk. 
It had not been locked, and a pile of receipted 
board and doctor’s bills I had never seen lay 
in it, with a letter dated the very day that 
Elinor — that Noel — that I fell ill, from Brande’s 
friends on California Street. It told me that 


dramatic in iHg JOestins- 133 


through his strong efforts I was given a place 
with them, which made sure the income I had 
longed for to let me marry and stay in my own 
country. They had kept the place waiting for 
me, and meanwhile paid my bills. Through 
Brande’s influence ! And I had killed my best 
friend ! I gasped for air, opened the windows 
and walked the room. I could trace my troubles 
all back to that infernal Si-ki. Hastily making 
ready, I stole out unseen, and rushed to Tong- 
ko-lin-sing. As I went in, his Tien-Sien lark 
was filling the room with its song, standing on 
the floor of its cage, which was on the table in 
front of his master, who sat reading in his 
bamboo easy -chair. Tong -ko-lin- sing was 
struck with the change in me, and wished to 
talk of it. 

I must find Si-ki,’’ I said. 

‘Mn a field of melons do not pull up your 
shoes,” said he; ‘‘under a plum-tree do not 
adjust your cap. If I go with you, it will look 
as if 1 knew where to find him. I do not.” 

“ You can find him. You must hunt for 
him,” I persisted. 

It was like talking to a blank wall. He was 
unmoved except to ask : 

“ The lady — ?” 

“ Is dead. I must fi^id Si-ki.” 


134 iOramatic in ilTg mastitis. 


Quite shocked that I should be so straight- 
forward, he said: “She has ascended to the 
skies? 

I nodded impatiently. 

“ To what sublime religion did she belong?’* 
he asked. 

I told him. I piled a small heap of gold and 
silver on the table under his eyes. 

He spoke in high praise of her faith, but 
added : 

“ Religions are many. Reason is one. We 
are all brothers.” 

While speaking, he put the money out of 
sight, hung up the bird-cage, and opened his 
door. 

We searched parts of Chinatown which 
would have been barred to me without a Chi- 
nese comrade ; underground depths, like the 
abysses after death ; upper stories and roofs of 
buildings that towered in air as if striving for 
space to breathe; narrow, crooked alleys, 
where loungers talked across from windows 
about the American straying there, and 
seemed to think I was led by Tong-ko-lin-sing 
because in some way his prisoner. He offered 
odd trifles from the depths of his sleeves, in 
small pawn-shops, which held queer gather- 
ings — pistols of all styles, daggers, even the 


dramatic in iHs JDestins. 135 


fan-stiletto, clothes, beds and bedding, tea, 
sugar, clocks, china, and ornaments. He 
called on large warehouses, where the heads 
of great firms met us ; and behind huge jars 
the size of men, wrought silk screens, giant 
kites, odd baskets, and gay china, but not be- 
yond the queer foreign scent of such stores, 
we were given rare tea in tiny cups holding 
no more than our dessert-spoons. He drew 
me through woody ards and vegetable gardens, 
and over fish-dryers* sheds. All knew and 
looked up to Tong-ko-lin-sing as one who knew 
the written language, but could not help him. 
He went to the Six Companies; but neither 
the Ning Yang, which owns the most men in 
San Francisco, nor the Sam Yup, which sends 
the most men to other States ; neither the Hop 
Wo, nor the Kong Chow, nor the other two, 
nor the great washhouse company, could or 
would tell us anything. One after another he 
asked the throng of small curbstone dealers, 
the pipe-cleaners, cigarette-rollers, vegetable 
or sweetmeat venders, and cobblers, even the 
gutter-snipes. 

At last, the cobbler who always sits on the 
south side of Clay Street, just below Dupont, 
told him something which I did not catch, but 
he heard with a start. He wavered and urged 


136 QL\)c JUrantatic in HJestins. 


me to give up the search. 1 would not. He 
set off a new way, and soon darted into an 
alley full of the grimy, blackened buildings 
which can never be used after the Chinese 
have lived in them, whose dark horrors re- 
called some scene elsewhere known — in what 
past age? I saw round me only the signs of a 
civilization older than the Pharaohs. I heard 
the twang and squeak of rude instruments, 
which, two thousand years before the three- 
stringed rebec (sire of our violin) was heard in 
Italy, played in balmy tea-gardens these same 
old songs of love, difficulty, and despair. Here 
crowded the strange buildings, here crouched 
the quaint shadows of an Oriental city, known 
to me — when? where? in some dark-hued 
picture? 

As Tong -ko-lin- sing started down some 
breakneck steps, I stopped a moment for 
breath, and looked around me. A street-lamp 
lighted a Chinese poster close by me, a signed 
and sealed notice from the Chin Mook Sow 
society, offering a thousand dollars, not for the 
taking of two offenders, but for their assassina- 
tion ! I shuddered and crawled down the nar- 
row, shaky stairs. On the last landing from 
which I could see the narrow strip of sky, I 
looked up. Two great golden planets watched 


0^1)0 JUramatic in ills JUestinji. 137 


me. I groaned and went on. I felt the crooks 
of this under-world soon shut all out, like a 
coffin-lid. My love was dead. My friend was 
murdered. 1 cursed aloud. 1 followed Tong- 
ko-lin-sing only by the strained tension of my 
nerves, through which I saw him in the dark, 
as plain as if in light, and heard him mutter- 
ing in Chinese, monotonous as the shrilling 
of the wind far overhead. He went in at a 
door — through a long passage that had a 
strange smell that made me feel faint, a smell 
of death — till, after a moment’s pause, as if 
to make sure he was right, and giving me a 
warning touch, he opened a door into a dimly 
lighted den, while the sickening scent grew 
worse. 

** Si-ki ! ” he called. 

What was this ghostly form, white as a 
skeleton, which slowly glimmered through the 
gloom before my amazed eyes.? Dizzy from 
the fetid scent, yet held by my horror as by 
transfixing spear, with failing heart and quak- 
ing limbs, I saw the ghastly figure cross the 
rotten, slimy floor toward us. 

‘‘My dream! My dream!” I murmured as 
I clung to Tong-ko-lin-sing for support. 

An awful voice, discordant as a Chinese 
gong, the hollow voice of a leper, a voice un- 


138 0ri)e SDramatic in illn IBestinn. 


earthly as if we had been shades met in 
another world, cried : 

** Between us two ! Between us two/'* 


A GRACIOUS VISITATION. 





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A 



A GRACIOUS VISITATION. 


All those strange things and secret decrees and unrevealed trans- 
actions, which are above the clouds and far beyond the regions of 
the stars, shall combine in m\n\s\.xy,— Jeremy Taylor, 

Who sleeps on graves, rises mad, or a Tzigane Proverb, 


ra- T s- m m ^ "1 1 » - 

VX/SVt 

-I \ r ^ r r i i u r . t r i 


V 'p. 1 r * ' ^ 1 ^ t 1 - 


PPP 


The first time so faint and far that I could 
not tell it from the hauntings of the inner ear 
known to all musicians, the chance strains 
evoked for me by the differing keys of the fog 
signals. 

I lived in a region of remote sounds. On 
Russian Hill I looked down as from a balloon; 
all there is of the stir of the city comes in dis- 
tant bells and whistles, changing their sound, 
just as the scenery moves, according to the 
state of the atmosphere. The islands shift as 
if enchanted, now near and plain, then re- 
moved and dim. The bay widening, sapphire 
blue, or narrowing, green and gray, or, before 


142 


^ 0raciotts l)isitation. 


a storm, like quicksilver. The hills over the 
water drawing close, green or snowy, showing 
whether their buildings miles away are of 
brick or wood, or all is thrust into blue dis- 
tance, or brushed away, a bank of fog looking 
as if the world reached no farther. The city 
lights twinkling of long lines of romances or 
hidden by the gray slides that shut off all in 
life but the wails of warning to the sailors. 
Great heat spreading stretches, as of piles 
of white wool upon the water. Sharp edges 
everywhere bringing the city huddling into 
itself, as in fear of the coming storm. It 
is like having genii for companions, so pictur- 
esque and constantly varying are the alternate 
movement and exchange of currents from the 
sea of air and the sea of water, tremendous 
forces of life, showing me personality, pulse 
and arteries, as traced by Maury, who even 
suggests for the ocean a heart — the equator. 
Their companionship enlarges and enriches the 
mind, the air uplifting with its symbolic effects, 
the sea responding to movements of far-off 
worlds, and a highway for distant nations. 

I watched not only our steamers and ferry- 
boats and yacht-races, like a flock of white 
birds hovering over the blue, but Arctic 
whaler. South Sea trader, Mexican, Chilean, 


% 0racious bisitation. 


143 


and Peruvian coaster, Chinese junk, Austra- 
lian and Japanese merchantmen, Malay 
double-decker, corvette, frigate, men-of-war 
under all flags. 

Never again my husband’s ship, never 
again ! 

To have my house full of curios he had 
brought from long voyages, and to be able to 
always look at the shipping on the water, was 
some comfort for the sore heart that sought 
loneliness as a wounded animal hides. At 
first there were long, wakeful nights, when I 
sat in my window, till the harbor-lights grew 
like dear friends. Gradual healing came, in 
the stillness which makes the town, although 
within stone’s throw below, seem yet un- 
built; on the pure blasts from mid-ocean 
spaces where none have breathed ; in the gor- 
geous sunsets that give the meanest Cinde- 
rella the freedom of fairy cities ; in never-to- 
be-forgotten cloud effects, as when the aerial- 
sea hints knowledge of ocean depths, showing 
mackerel spots or the Pope’s signet, once, a 
perfect skeleton of a whale, and, before a tem- 
pest, a gigantic, livid hand, with its Saturn 
finger torn out, pointed long toward the Golden- 
Gate, as if calling up a gale, or signalling its. 
coming from thousands of miles at sea. Often 


144 


^ Gracious t)isitati0n. 


the whole sky was of such terrific import that 
I feared Michelet’s waves, like a mob of eye- 
less, earless beasts, foaming at the mouth, de- 
manding universal death, suppression of the 
earth, and return to chaos; but I learned that 
a dread menace of the sky may mean nothing 
here, ending in dire effects on distant waters. 
I had no longer to fear for my husband’s ship. 
I could enjoy seeing a storm sweep in, slowly 
blotting Gate, Presidio, Tamalpais, and Angel 
Island, in my view hours before its descent 
upon the eastern side of the town ; or black 
clouds as of thunder over Tamalpais fringe 
into trailing wreaths like smoke that blow in- 
land, shaking loose rafter and blind, and 
rattling door-lock; or hearing a gale beating 
doors and windows, threatening down the 
chimney, straining to lift the whole house, 
and shrieking in wrath about it. 

All this made the busy streets very dull. 
Born with a sort of temperamental hasheesh in 
my veins which makes a book affect like a 
whirlwind, a picture soothe as manna from 
Heaven, a piece of music seem crushing disas- 
ter, I lived in exciting times, as if always look- 
ing on at the opera of the Flying Dutchman. 
This led to my rhyming about one of its airs. 


% (gracious bisitatioit 


145 


SPINNING SONG. 

Wagner- List z. 

I turn the wheel of thrumming whir, 

Hear tread of life and love and hate. 

I burn, I feel through humming stir 
The thread is rife with grief and fate. 

Witch-cat light purring, purrring light. 

Breathe of high wind by wizard sold, 

White horses’ flight in rushing might 
By lashing blast alone controlled. 

Yo-ho-ho-ho ! Yo-ho-ho-ho ! 

Far sailor-cries float, dinning long. 

Blend billowy, fray in thinning throng, 

I thrill, I play the spinning song. 

Twirl, wheel, whose magic moan and drone 
Shades golden hope with tint of gloom. 

Whirl, wheel, whose tragic monotone 
Braids holden scope with hint of doom. 

The wheel— the wheel— the wheel— the wheel- 
Dream-spinner moving to and fro — 

Night hours reveal a plunging keel 
Where rolling gale and breakers blow. 

Yo-ho-ho-ho/ Yo-ho-ho-ho! 

Far sailor-cries float, dinning long. 

Veer billowy, stray in thinning throng. 

Sheer thrill, I play the spinning song. 

Roll, fashion murmur, in thy gyre. 

Of seashells’ mulfling, that is yet 
Dole, passion, all the world’s desire. 

Brief foam-bells ruffling our veins’ fret 


146 


^ (®ranotJS Visitation. 


Glide, slurring, slurring wheel, go round. 

Mock cordage-wail of fated sail 
Make blurring, blurring of a sound 
As if all frail hearts did bewail. 

Yo-ho‘ho-hof Yo‘ho‘ho-ho! 

Far sailor-cries float, dinning long. 

Blown billowy, spray in thinning throng. 

I thrill, I play the spinning song. 

In vain my friends, toiling up to see me, 
urged me to move, saying it was not safe for 
me to live there alone. I never felt lonely. 
If not playing or reading, I had my reveries. 
In these, since living here, the same scenes 
came again and again, as if people sitting by 
me had always the same thoughts which I 
grew to know, as my husband and I from long 
companionship read each other^s minds. I saw 
granite quays, a vast city of miles of straight 
lines, utterly flat; against its pale sky minarets 
and domes of pink and gray, as of great Baby- 
lon blushing into view through the mist of 
time. Was I looking through telescope at a 
dead world, or was this an immense, vague, 
dreary marsh? A bog, snow- weighted alders 
and willows here and there, and endless rows 
of stakes along a plank-road. Big moose with 
branching antlers, wolves shaggy and dark, 
outlined against a moon-lit horizon. Black 


^ 0raci0ns bisitation. 


147 


troops of ravens and crows, blown, upset, 
borne off helpless in zigzag trailing through 
sheets of storm like a fall of white fox fur. 
High terraces of birch and maple lengthening 
into scattered pines, and yet fewer firs; then 
the silence of centuries felt under the copper 
moon, beside the rivers of molten silver of a 
polar night. Sledge, barge, caravan. A lonely 
ship becalmed upon her tremulous reflection 
countless fathoms below, white upon the dark- 
ness of night, with stars glancing amid the rig- 
ging. A vessel rolling with slanting spar and 
swelling canvas, flying through the foam of a 
wild wash leaping windward. A knot of sailor- 
faces, lowering and heavily lined, swaying 
with the bound of the ship and showing by 
fitful light of a swinging lamp below deck. 
An island with tufted tree-tops, and beach so 
white as to dazzle. 


pp 

The second time 1 heard it with quick re- 
membrance. An old French sea-song which 
Richepin calls that master-piece of an un- 
known, a revelation of man and high soul- 
tides; the words are few, the notes but five, 
the refrain only traderi ira lanlaire et trouloula^ 




148 


% (Gracious l)isitation 


yet, as he says, all the sea, the breath of 
space, cries from wrecks, the mirth and the 
terror of the sailor’s hard life are there, and 
heard at sunset it has the melancholy grandeur 
of an evocation of Night. How often my hus- 
band and I had together listened to it, the 
favorite chantez''^ of a French sailor who 
voyaged with him for years ! Ah ! that very 
day the Russian priest had read in my face a 
famished heart. 

Looking down upon the Latin Quarter, with 
its rows of prim Boston houses, its Mexican 
corner-stores, its French tiny conservatory- 
fronts, the buildings showing the mingling of 
foreign elements in its people, ‘‘the character- 
istic Russian fleck of gold upon green” shows 
the Greek church. I liked to go there some- 
times, for the reverent attitude, of a standing 
congregation, the priests in picturesque hats 
and brocade robes, upon carpets spread for 
them, the swinging censer, burning tapers, and 
chanting of stately music of the fifteenth cen- 
tury, allowing neither voice of organ nor of 
woman. Here I listened to a relic of days of 
hiding in catacombs, the thrilling Greater 
Compline, with its striking effect of choirs 
upon opposite sides bandying like a ball four 
exultant words. The choirs alternate through 


^ (Sradons l^isitation. 


149 


twenty-six phrases, all ending in God is with 
us!” which is at last sung by the united 
voices. It is like hearing the earnest prophet 
Isaiah himself, for his are the words. Thus I 
came to know one of the priests, a stately old 
man whose look was that of a human-faced 
bull of Nineveh. I like to think I had a share 
in what Aivasovky painted, that arrival of 
relief from America to the famine-stricken 
Riazan. By hard work I was able to collect a 
large sum for that fund. When, on this day, I 
gave it to the priest he said, after thanking me : 

‘‘You have a sad face, Mrs. Trevelyan. 
Few of us get through this battle of life un- 
scarred. I have known so many, so many of 
the wounded. To those who live here for 
years it is a city of haunted corners, haunted 
not only by our own old footsteps and hopes 
that rose and fell to their beat, but by 
knowledge that here was a suicide, there a 
murder, hither and yon the vague “found 
dead.” You look like a Russian friend of 
years ago. It is one of those chance resem- 
blances of face, or figure, or voice, that are so 
strange — so sweet — so sad. For life has its 
haunted corners, too, with their own tragedies. 
Bitter is a famine of the heart ! I shall pray 
for your peace.” 


% (Sracions l)isitation. 


150 


His lofty, Mithraic head-gear did not mar 
the remains of romantic blonde beauty. As I 
looked at him I wondered what heartbreak he 
had known or caused. He gave me a costly 
icon, the Madonna and Child with gold-winged 
angels round them, all the faces finely painted 
on porcelain, and silver arabesques hiding the 
figures. 

On my way home I went on the green hill- 
top. All the southern portion of the city was 
shrouded in smoke, it towered above in the 
Afrite columns of the Arabian Nights, it spread 
low like a tumultuous ocean, no more of the 
town in sight than as if the Last Hour had 
long been burning it. Against the east side of 
the Swedenborgian minister’s hermitage a tall 
clump of scarlet passion-flowers added its 
solemn legend to the scene. It was a purple 
and white one I had known running over the 
door of my eastern home. The crown of 
thorns, sponge, scourge, nails, and five 
wounds in this bloody guise cast a weird 
gloom as if I had met the Witch of Endor. 
Grave and tired I turned homeward. The 
owner of a fine house near had gone abroad, 
the care-taker, a sad woman who had known 
better days, stood at the gate as I passed. 

I hate to go in ! ” said she. The house 


% ©racions bisitation. 


151 


looks bigger and darker and more lonesome 
every night ! How strange it is that you are 
never afraid ! There has been so much crime 
here lately, too.” 

I said some cheering words to her. When 1 
reached my house 1 looked back; she still 
stood there. I thought 1 would go over later 
and keep her company a while. 

Alone, thinking of her, of the starving 
Russians, and of the priest’s words, an old 
‘‘charm” came into mind, and set me to 
rhyming an appeal, not for myself alone, 
though worded so, but meant as for all 
stricken and despairing. 

THE RUNE OF THE HEALING. 

Come! forces of an ancient “healing charm,* 

Begged of soft heart and lofty soul its balm. 

Deeper than plummets fall 
It has no limitary, 

In height or breadth no thrall : 

Help! by the heart of Mary! 

Help! by the soul of Paul! 

Aid, O, brave pother-heart, full heart of Mary, 

For one decree we know: 

“A sword shall pierce through thine own soul I ” Nor 
vary 

Our souls, white shields, all show 
Like pure Sir Galahed’s — 

A red cross come and go. 


152 


^ ©racions Visitation. 


Rossini’s Inflarnmaius ^ wild appealing, 

Breathes, fitly, pathos, passion, depth of feeling, - 
In keen, uplifting ecstasy revealing 

My heart inflamed for thee. 

Thy heart aglow for me ! 

Hear both mild reed, bluff brass, imploring, soaring, 
“I weep! I weep! I weep!” 

Ineffable the agony adoring. 

Sigh upon sigh doth leap. 

Grief rippling eddy spreads, 

The strings in shudder keep. 

“Because unloved, unloved, goes Love, so tender!’* 
Let me be one with thee. Great Heart— surrender — 
Melt into thee— there let me glide — Befriender ! 

The music-tide at neap— 

While — in — I —trembling — creep ! 

Kind Powers of overwhelming awe and might ! 
Immortal allies against mortal plight! 

The ages cannot pall 
Confiding tributary 
That cries when ills befall : 

Help! by the heart of Mary ! 

Help ! by the soul of Paul! 

Aid me, high soul of Paul, illuminating 

The way through dark and mire. 

Soul of Initiate, irradiating 

Cheer from Eternal Fire. 

Like pure Sir Galahad’s, 

Thy strength can never tire. 


% (Sraciotts Visitation. 


153 


Thou great Intelligences close beholding, 

Thine things unseen, and the unknown, unfolding 
All mysteries that life and death are moulding. 

To thee naught can be dire. 

Thy fervor I desire. 

Of vast depths open to thy thought’s entreating 
What daring hints are thine. 

Impassioned mystic ! “ Grace and peace '* thy greeting. 
For to thy wisdom fine 
Move with commingling threads 
The earthly and divine. 

Thy meditation as a planet beaming. 

Thy intuition like a meteor streaming. 

Thy revelation light from Heaven gleaming. 

Let faith and hope combine 
With love, the greatest, mine! 

Heart 

That grieved and pitieth even passing smart — 

Soul 

Caught up into wide vision of the whole — 

Hark to the eager call 
From life but fragmentary 
To love fulfilling all: 

Help! by the heart of Mary! 

Help! by the soul of Paul! 

I went to a window, thinking about going to 
cheer the care-taker, and the sunset kept me 
there. The usual bands of rose and turquoise 
of our twilight horizon were not to be seen; 
the whole sky was dappled in pink as often by 


154 


^ ©vacions Visitation. 


day in white. The meaning of the low-hang- 
ing smoke was shown. The air was in a 
tumult of the strange symbolism which seems 
to reveal personality, showing broken rainbow, 
fallen castle, ruined bridge in the sky before 
a storm. Here were glimpses of palaces, 
churches, monasteries as of the Kremlin es- 
planade. None of the sadness of Gothic art, 
with its vain upward reaching, but the true 
romance of Muscovite architecture, all its wild 
caprices of blue, red, and apple-green, of rose- 
in-bloom and lily-in-bud bell-towers, gilded 
spires and cupolas, rococo and Byzantine 
joined, like fantastic freaks of frost, and here 
and there were touches of snow. There was 
Frederick the Great’s room, coated with amber, 
the raised parts translucent; here the famous 
pavement of agates. Lovely letters of the 
Russian alphabet, in Greek attitudes, drifted 
in line, like the decorative frieze in Oriental 
palaces. Amid a crowd of half-revealed figures, 
the chief one, in Byzantine style, three times 
the height of others, even seemed to carry the 
long sword of Paul. 


Th ' — IT 

gft.. i1 — ■“in 


rri»i r r P*- >il 

— - 

prrr * rp — 4id-P \\ 


The third time, the name flashed upon me. 


% ©racions Visitation. 


155 


the Complaint of the Three Mariners. Close 
by came men’s voices in cooing, sputtering 
Russ. Sailors often climbed up the hill to look 
at the sea, as actors enjoy the theatre. 

Now, the words came back to me : 

“We were two, we were three, 

We were three mariners 
Of Groix.” 

When I answered a knock at my door five 
unknown Russians, sailors, by their bronzed 
faces and the dress of three of them, stood 
bowing before me. 

‘‘Mrs. Trevelyan,” said the handsome 
leader, a haughty Pole in fur pelisse and cap, 
“my name is Vladimir Stroganoff. I am the 
supercargo of the Stormy Petrel. We know 
of your interest in Russia and call to pay our 
respects.” 

The second, a fine-looking gentleman, wore 
a blue coat with gold buttons, a gold plate on 
the shoulder with raised crown and stars and 
a number, and a very white flat-topped cap. 
He said: “I am Boris Volokhoff, formerly of 
the Russian navy; later, master of the Jolly 
Polly.” 

How could a master-mariner’s widow re- 
fuse.? I thought they knew the priest. I let 
them in. 


% 0racious bieitation. 


156 


The third was a big, clumsy man of over- 
bearing way, with a whiskey-bottle sticking 
out of his pocket, outlined through his old blue 
boat-cloak with a look of hoar frost upon it, 
the salt of what far seas! ‘M am Dmitri 
Dmitrivitch, second mate of the Stormy 
Petrel,’^ he blustered. “I want to say to 
you, Mrs. Trevelyan, you are the one woman 
in ten that we Russians say has a soul 1 ’’ 

The other two were in sailor suits. The 
fourth was a wiry man, with onyx eyes and 
the indrawn gaze of the wizard Finns; his hair 
was like Finland granite, reddish speckled with 
gray; he wore ear-rings. On his shoulder, 
also bowing to me, perched a tiny monkey, as 
if his familiar. 

He and the boy bowed first to the icon. 
Then he said: ** I am Alexis Prayrafsky; and 
this boy,’^ motioning toward the last one, **\s 
Ivan Bitiagofsky, both of us seafaring men, 
sailor and cabin-boy of the Stormy Petrel.” 

The boy was a sad-faced Kalmuck, wearing 
one big earring. He handed me some flowers. 
The monkey hurried down to present one to 
me and dashed back up his master’s arm. 

** The castor-oil tree in your garden,” said 
the captain, ‘Mooks like an old friend. My 
father had a plantation of it.” 


% (Sraci0U0 bisUation. 


157 


“ It pleases us,’’ said the supercargo, “to 
find here our petunias, marigolds, daisies, ver- 
benas, red poppies and thyme.” 

“ Have you been here long?” I asked. 

“Well — yes — some time,” said he; “ we are 
— so to speak — marooned.” 

I concluded they were changing ships. 

“ You find this a contrast to the bigness and 
flatness of St. Petersburg,” said I. 

“ There ’s nothing here like St. Isaac’s; that 
cost millions,” the boy burst forth. “To gild 
the copper of the cupola fourteen bushels of 
English ducats were melted down. Fourteen 
bushels of ducats! Our Nevsky shrine is a 
pyramid fifteen feet high, a ton and a half of 
pure silver ! ” 

“You would like Gautier’s words about St. 
Petersburg,” said I, — “a city of gold upon a 
horizon of silver.” 

“ Our sky,” said the supercargo, “is never 
sapphire; it is like opal or the chill blue of 
steel.” 

“Always,” added the captain, “ like late 
afternoon on your Atlantic coast.” 

“ There are times when this looks like a 
foreign seaport,” 1 said, “when the water 
seems to have risen and crowded the city 
under the hills; there are views from these 


158 


% (SraciouB Visitation. 


corners satisfying as food, like the eastward 
glimpse from Jackson and Taylor streets.’’ 

‘*The water is always threatening,” said 
the Finn, ” to carry out the Mexican monk’s 
old prophecy of this city’s drowning.” 

There are none of these illusions on the 
stern coast of the prim Puritans and their 
descendants,” said the captain. Mirage be- 
longs to a different class of people.” 

”An atmosphere of miracle,” I said, ‘‘suits 
a city of a saint.” 

“We have no begging friars in Russia,” the 
mate boomed at me in a hoarse voice. “ It is 
not your St. Francis that interests Russians, 
but your bear, the favorite animal of our St. 
Sergius.” 

The boy had run to a window. “Look!” 
he cried. “A shooting star I Come to fetch 
souls ! ” 

I saw a glance of meaning going from one to 
another till all five had caught it. 

“One of our superstitions,” said the cap- 
tain. 

1 brought forward my samovar and made tea, 
serving it in their fashion in glasses, with 
lemon and big lumps of sugar for them to hold 
and nibble now and then, the monkey joining 
in this. The Kalmuck slyly spilled drops 


^ Gracious Visitation. 


159 


toward the north, south, east, and west, like 
the tribute paid by the New Mexican Indians. 

** I used to wish,’ ^ said I, ** that my husband 
would go to Russia to bring me beautiful things 
made there.” 

They glanced at each other. Presently the 
supercargo drew from his pocket and showed 
me bracelets of globes of crystal and of ame- 
thyst. The Finn had a spoon carved by monks 
with the text : * ‘ Seek by prayer and supplica- 
tion.” Stroganoff brought out a necklace of 
rose tourmalines set with diamonds. The 
sailor showed turquoises from the old mines of 
Nishapur, dozens set in rolls of wax. The 
mate’s boat-cloak had hidden bolts of tissues 
woven with gold and silver threads, and slip- 
pers of gay morocco covered with gold em- 
broidery. Volokhoff showed a brooch of 
exquisite nie/lo work, and then a Moldavian 
woman’s necklace of gold coins. The monkey 
darted upon their glitter and ran home proudly 
wearing it. 

I vainly tried to buy some of the finery. 
They beamed upon me with smiling refusal 
that showed their gleaming teeth. No, no^ 
not these,” they said, and put them away. 

‘M would like to show you some Russian 
ornaments a neighbor has,” I said; ‘‘we can- 
not tell the inscriptions.” 


i6o 


% 0raciotis l)isitation. 


I started toward the door. There was a 
general rising. I found myself surrounded 
and got back to my chair, but in the gentlest 
manner, by my big-waisted, baby-eyed callers. 

‘‘No,’" said the captain; ‘Met us look at 
your curios,^' 

They politely feigned interest in what could 
not have been new to them : costly shawls of 
palm-leaf covered Cashmere, and heavily em- 
broidered crape, of which, with Flemish guipure 
lace, I had made portieres and mantel-drapery ; 
French trifles in porcelain, gold, and ivory; 
crystal and gold perfume-caskets, a fan that 
was Pompadour’s, some Sevres cups and 
saucers; rare old amber Satsuma jars; huge 
polar-bear skins ; wide-spread antlers ; carved 
tusks, odd bronzes, Parian statuettes and 
groups; an emu’s egg of palest green, a large 
fan of white peacock feathers, a carved teak- 
wood table from India ; a cherry-stone brace- 
let bearing three years of Chinese carving; 
bits of the Constitution, the Bounty, and 
the first Atlantic cable ; from Corea a carved 
tortoise-shell necklace and box topped with 
dragons and a little ivory god that was 
never to be laid on its back or it would 
bring ill-luck on the one who gave it to my 
husband, — her family had owned it for three 


^ (Sracions Visitation 


i6i 


centuries ; things collected through many 
years, numberless, of varying worth, but 
some of extreme value. 

The Russians vied with each other in trying 
to please me with stories. The mate told of 
trees of seaweed, mountain-ranges of coral, 
and great grottoes of amber. The supercargo 
named treasures of the Troitsa monastery: 
coats of mail wrought with verses from the 
Koran; the chain of the first of the Roman- 
offs, every link with an engraved prayer and 
one of the Czar’s titles, ninety-nine in all; 
Gospels encrusted with gems and clasped by 
cameos; diamond-set chalices; and brocade 
dalmatics worked with flowers in precious 
stones. The captain mentioned the African 
trees of silver-gray, where the gray parrots 
roost unseen. 

The boy told of the Granovitai'a Palata, the 
Facet Palace, the whole inside known as the 
Gilded Room, its gold walls covered with dark 
paintings and legends in the fine old Sclavonic 
letters, the very height of the dazzling, gloomy, 
and imposing. *Mt is like walking in a story- 
book,” he said. 

They were all pleased with a pastel an 
artist friend had made for lines of mine, which 
he had framed beneath it. 


i 62 


% (Sracions bisitation. 


A FOG. 

Dim, shifting shape, the buildings loom afar,— 

Is it a driving snowstorm held in air? 

Almost I hear the sleigh-bells’ beating jar 
White silence sound but faintly can impair 
In scene like crystal ball of Icy glare, 

For Memory, mystic seer its visions are ! 

Dim, shifting shape the buildings loom afar,— 

Is it a snowfall spellbound in the air? 

I watch o’er tufted palm the evening-star. 

Then aerial currents drifting, duping, snare, 

The wailing fog-horn warns of harbor-bar, 

On far-off frosty road I seem to fare. 

Dim, shifting shape, the buildings loom afar,— 

Is it a film of snowflakes charmed in air? 

fog is as mysterious as beautiful,” said 
the captain. ** There is a wide difference in 
the stillness inside and outside. It has inter- 
spaces where sound never penetrates; this 
causes wreck even near fog-whistles.” 

“ In the next house,” said I, ‘‘they have a 
pastel much like this, but larger, by the same 
artist; let me borrow it to show you.” 

Again I had almost reached the hall. Then 
the supercargo was politely leading me across 
the room, and the others were between me and 
the door. 

“Do not take the trouble,” they were all 
gently saying. 


% ©raciotts bisitation. 


163 


“ Let the Finn show you some of his 
sorcery/* said the captain. 

At once the sailor’s arms were waving, and 
the air was full of flying cards which returned 
to him and were caught by monkey as well as 
by master. Through our silence of watching 
him there came once a sound like a faraway 
cry, and again I saw that meaning look go 
round. Stroganoff begged for music. I played 
Glinka and Rubinstein. Volokhoff sang a 
Muscovite love-song, a mingling of joy and 
grief; a smothered fire, the southern sun 
and northern gloom. Dmitrivitch began to 
bellow: 

** Five betel-nut palms of Bombay,” in tones 
of a fog-horn, but was checked by the captain. 
Stroganoff played strains of Tschaikowsky’s 
pathetic symphony, showing me the trom- 
bones’ heart-broken cries, dying away, one by 
one, at the close. 

Like expiring torches at a midnight fu- 
neral,” said he. 

** Moliere’s ! ” I suggested. 

** Juliet’s,” he said. 

‘‘Why,” I asked, “do people speak as if 
deep feeling could be only in play or song or 
story?” 

“Lord love ye, ma’am!” roared the big 


164 


% (^racioua Visitation. 


mate, ‘‘we could spin you yarns that beat 
playhouse and book all to tatters.” 

“ I should like nothing better,” said I. 

“Tell her,” said the boy, “about the galleon 
foundered off Acapulco with crusadoes of gold, 
chests of pieces of eight, wrought crucifixes of 
precious ore, gold and silver bars, silks, spices, 
costly tea, chocolate, and sweetmeats.” 

“I might tell of fire at sea,” said the cap- 
tain, “or wild adventure on the coast of 
Africa, when I was in the ‘ black ivory ’ trade 
and could have got one hundred blacks for one 
white woman.” 

“I could make your blood run cold, Mrs. 
Trevelyan,” shouted the great mate, “all 
about being hemmed in by icebergs, or chased 
by sharks.” 

“Speak about the Manila ship,” the boy 
said, “that had four hundred and fifty in the 
crew, carried a hundred and fifty pirates, 
prisoners, and a three-million-dollar cargo of 
gold, satins, musk, jewels, wines, and con- 
serves.” 

“I can tell of St. Elmo’s lights,” said the 
Finn, “ or of were-wolves among some wedding 
guests.” 

“Tell,” the boy urged, “about when the 
pirates counted out five hundred and ninety- 


% (Orations bisitation. 


165 


nine guineas in half and whole pieces, all of 
Queen Anne’s time, yet fresh and delightful 
to feel of.” 

**She wants to hear,” asserted the mate, 
positively, “about a ship being ketched in the 
bottom of a whirling blow, in pitch dark, noth- 
ing left of creation but a hole of lightway up 
over us, the eye of the storm, we calls it, 
leering down to see how we takes it, or how 
to upset us.” 

“ I want her to hear,” said the boy, “ about 
the three ships Dampier met, laden deep as 
they could swim with tons and tons of quince 
marmalade, that would have had eight hun- 
dred thousand gold pieces only they got wind 
of freebooters.” 

“ I could make your face as long as a wet 
hammock, ma’am,” cried the mate, “about a 
masked cap’n, and a lady made to walk the 
plank.” 

“ Come, come,” said the supercargo, “Mrs. 
Trevelyan is not to get nervous. Let us tell 
her our own story. You begin it, captain.” 

“That’ll ease off a point or so for each 
man,” thundered the mate, “a five-stranded, 
left-handed twister ! ” 

The captain began : “ The Jolly Polly was 
a tramp vessel, now smuggling opium, or 


i66 


% 0racions Visitation. 


musk, then in the ‘ black ivory ’ line, another 
time carrying pirates’ treasure. I need not 
say what cruise I was on when we sighted a 
ship we had several times heard of from ves- 
sels spoken. They reported her as ‘acting 
strangely.’ She carried a distress-signal, the 
reversed ensign, and colors that cried ‘To 
Speak,’ yet she was said to run away from 
any attempt to reach her. When we saw her 
she carried fore-sail, lower top-sail, spanker 
and main-sail set; everything else was in con- 
fusion, as if dropped suddenly. She was 
painted blue, with a fine red and gold line her 
length, and a red, blue and gold figure-head. 
The name on the stern read The Stormy 
Petrel. She seemed to wait for us, gently 
swaying, as if but a mermaid’s fan in motion, 
she was so far and small to the naked eye. 
There was no gleam from polished brass and 
glass as she moved ; all looked dingy. As we 
came up there was no answer to our cries. 
Nobody showing on deck to watch the coming 
of the boat I sent, I had curiosity enough to 
set off myself in a second boat. There was 
no one on board the Petrel. We could find no 
trace of hurt; she had not struck a reef or 
been run into; stern, sternpost, and rudder 
were all right. Seamen’s chests and some of 


^ (SraciotiB Visitation. 


167 


their clothes left about were dry. They had 
not met very heavy weather. A little bottle 
of vanilla on the cook’s table had not been 
upset; the pitch in the water-ways had not 
started; hull, masts, and yards were perfect; 
there was not a crack in the grimed paint of 
the deck-house. The deck was smeared 
everywhere with old stains of blood. It was 
flush-decked ; you looked from the taffrail along 
a platform whose length was broken only by 
skylights, the forward windlass, and once by 
the galley long-boat, but that and all the boats 
were gone. The cabin was large, panelled in 
pale blue and red and gold, and light with a big 
stern window. There was a woman's long 
black cloak here, a lace handkerchief and 
carved ivory fan there. A table under the lamp 
bore books and papers. A woman’s diary, 
made of loose sheets, had dates of months 
after the last entry in the log, but now weeks 
old. It was merely bits about the weather 
and her being all alone. There was a piece of 
poetry in the same writing on a sheet of paper 
fallen to the floor, where there was also a 
small square of paper, folded once, with the 
word ^Act!' on it, in a man’s writing. The 
captain’s chronometer, sextant, and charts 
were gone. No bills of lading, no manifest. 


i68 


^ (^rarions Visitation. 


were found. The cargo had been taken away, 
but small wedges of gold were scattered about, 
proving it had been a treasure ship. Why it 
had been deserted was a riddle we did not 
think we could ever solve, but in the hope of 
salvage-claim we took the Petrel in tow. 

*‘Some days later we all heard, one dark 
night, the whistling of a Russian air, but could 
not tell where it came from. The crew thought 
the Petrel might be haunted; but I was sure 
the sound came from another side, and long 
hung over the starboard rail listening. It came 
and went, a fine, loud whistling of a beautiful 
old tune, slowly louder and louder, till the man 
in the forecastle cried : 

* It’s right off the bow, sir; but I don’t see 
anything.’ 

** Again and again it rose and fell, with a 
hopeless sadness in it that curdled my blood. 
I ordered the Polly stopped and had rockets 
sent up. At last these showed a little boat 
drifting close by, with a boy sitting in it and 
whistling, whistling, with no sign of seeing 
or hearing us. I had a boat lowered for a mate 
and some rowers, and had port-fires burning 
to show them how to find the boy and come 
back to us. When the boy was hoisted on 
board he cried : 


% (gracious faieitation. 


169 


“‘The cap'n and the second mate! Why- 
have n’t I come across ’em?’ 

“He was dazed and could hardly be made 
to eat and drink what was brought him, and 
soon fell into the dead sleep of exhaustion. To 
all our questions his only reply was once to 
exclaim : 

“‘Oh! I was so afraid of drifting ashore 
and finding Chocolate Charley and his 
gang!”’ 

The captain rose, and saying “Allow me,’’ 
carried a light from the mantelpiece to a table. 
It was the third time he had moved the lamps ; 
he had them now near windows. I concluded 
that his nerves took whims. 

“I wish I hadn’t! cried the boy. “I 
wish I had’nt ! But how could I know ? And 
I was so afeard ! It was blessed hard on wc, 
too ! When I see the Jolly Polly I thought it 
was only one of my dreams till I see it was 
tugging another one that lurches and peeps from 
behind just as if on the lookout for me, but 
trying not to have me find out it was the 
Stormy Petrel. 1 was in one of my queer 
spells. I could n’t help myself. I let ’em take 
me on board. When they all crowds round, 
asking this and that, at first I says : 

“ ‘ I don’t know about that ship.’ 


Qi (Sracions bisitaticn. 


170 


“But I used to sit and stare at it so that 
Cap’n Volokhoff says at last: 

“ ‘ You do know about the Petrel ; I see it in 
your face/ 

Where is the lady?* says I, for I was 
most dead with wanting to know. 

“ ‘ There was nobody on the Petrel when we 
found it,’ says he. 

“My heart was full; I couldn’t see. I 
burst out crying, and cried a good while, for all 
I had left her there alone. She was so kind, 
and pretty enough for a figure-head, and I 
liked her so much till the last, and then I was 
only afeard. When they sets us adrift in the 
Petrel we knowed it was going to be all chance 
with us, but we tries to cheer each other up. 

“ She says: * We must meet some vessel.’ 

“ ‘ We ’ve got lots to eat,’ says I. 

“ ‘We are safer here than on some island,’ 
says she. 

“I says: ‘We’ve got rid of Black Bill’s 
blue mug and his boosy set.’ 

“I tells her fine pirate-stories, only she’d 
laugh when I did n’t see anything funny. She 
tells me of grand doings at court ; soldiers there 
with big diamonds in their epaulets and sword- 
hilts; ladies in dresses of lace ‘like a spider’s 
web,’ says she, ‘and worth as much as rubies 


^ ©racions biaitation. 


171 


and diamonds/ She *d been to a great ball the 
night she come to the ship. 

‘ I had not gone home/ says she, ‘ when I 
was forced to hurry to the wharf. I had to 
pay the driver of a droskt with my lace over- 
dress. It was a fortune for him.’ 

*‘Her handsome yellow satin she wears 
caught up all round over her lace-trimmed 
skirts, rather tumbled and soiled now. She 
hides it all under her long cloak, only on deck, 
when it blowed chilly, she has to wear my 
pea-jacket and the bo’sun’s sou’wester ; though 
that couldn’t hide the fine lady. She was 
good company then. She tells me about see- 
ing nine bushels of pearls at the Troitsa mon- 
astery, just left over from embroidery. She ’d 
been to feasts where she had real caravan tea, 
the ten-dollars-a-pound kind, not hurt by sea- 
voyaging ; and oysters and grapes and water- 
melon, brandied cherries and sugar-glazed 
filberts ! 

‘‘We tried to forget where we was, for we 
could n’t bear to stay on deck, on account of 
the splashes of blood, nor in the cabin — it was 
too lonesome. It was hard to take in that we 
two was there alone, after all we ’d known go- 
ing on up and down. 

“‘We are going to meet the Portuguese 


172 


% Gracious Visitation. 


carrack that never come home/ says I, *with 
a castellated stern rising into a tower from 
her poop and pooproyal, and in her hold 
thousands of pounds^ worth of gold and silver 
bars, ingots, doubloons and ducats, gems, and 
minted money. That’s the ship you ought 
to be on ! ’ 

‘‘ Mt does sound like ‘my ship’,’ says she. 

“ The time come when we didn’t say much. 
We watches for days a smooth swell, most too 
lazy to go by us, and the slow sway across 
the deck of the shadow of the mizzen-mast, 
like a lullaby, listens to the straining of bulk- 
heads, clicking of doors loosely hooked, and 
the flapping of the canvas, till we feels we 
might as well be dead and under hatches. 
Then a breeze would send us skimming like 
the gulls slanting against the wind or hanging 
in the air round us, for the lady makes me 
scatter feed on deck for ’em. When we ’d 
feel the stir and rush we ’d cheer up and 
watch the snow of foam behind us and see 
things in it, same as you can looking in the 
fire. She see flower-wreaths, hearts, and stars 
mostly, but I could make out fortress and can- 
non and smoke of battle. Dear heart ! how 
afeard she was of a stiff blow, when the rig- 
ging screamed and the mast-heads leaned over. 


^ Gracious t)isitation. 


173 


and we has to steady ourselves by rail or be- 
laying-pin. Once or twice in many weeks 
we see ships creep out and in the haze on the 
horizon. I hoists the colors ‘To Speak’ and 
a brand new white ensign I finds in the color- 
chest. 

“‘To show ’em we ain’t pirates,’ I says. 
‘When they ketches sight of that the first 
mate with a telescope will run up on the 
main-royal yard, the second mate with a tel- 
escope will climb up on the fore-royal yard, 
and the cap’n will be trumpeting : ‘Ahoy ! ’ ” 

“ She laughs and says : ‘ Think of their sur- 
prise to find, after all that hurrah, only a 
woman and a boy.” 

“ But the vessels we see gets swallowed in 
fog or we did. And the Portuguese carrack, 
too ! After we ’d been hurried along for days 
by short winds, or stopped as if anchored for 
weeks, she gets downhearted. I knowed by 
her eyes that she cries a good deal, but she 
never let me see her doing of it. She knowed 
it was dirty luck for me, too. She asks me 
about my folks and makes me tell her things 
she could say to ’em in case she ever got 
home and I never did. I wants to do the same 
for her, but she says: 

“ ‘ It is better for you yourself that you 


174 


^ (©racions biaitation. 


should not name me. There is only one I 
want to reach. I don’t know where.’ 

One day 1 see her leaning over the bul- 
wark rail and goes up to her. She was looking 
where the ensign shadowed a white streak 
under the stern that made me think of a burial 
at sea and the body sinking. 

** ‘Haul it down ! ’ she says, with a shiver. 
‘ It is too like a shroud ! ’ 

“So I does, but I hated to lose such a big 
signal. Then she takes spells of walking, 
walking, walking sometimes all night above 
and below, all over the ship ; though, while she 
was in her right mind, she was shy of the 
bloody deck. I put off and put off trying to 
clean it up ; it turned my stomach to think of 
it. After a while she would n’t eat nor talk, 
but sits all the time writing, writing. 1 got 
afeard of her big, wild eyes and crazy ways, 
and when I see a branch with green leaves on 
the water, I says to myself: 

it <\Ye can’t be far from some island; I’ll 
risk it!’ I’d always been fond of sitting in 
the cap’n’s gig to watch the foam and spray 
about the rudder when we gets a breeze, and 
she did n’t mind my going there now. Little 
by little, I lays in provisions, and one night 
when she was standing behind the interlacing 


Ql 0racioni3 biaitation. 


175 


of the main shrouds, looking ahead, I sets to 
work and slowly, one end at a time, gets the 
gig lowered. Right you are ! The night was 
mild, the lady had no wrap, her hair was 
dressed very fine, and she was a-letting down 
her long train. The next minute I knowed 
she ’d be a-pacing to and fro, a-singing a polo- 
naise, and a-playing she was at the ball. I 
seen her do it lots of times. Over and over 
I ’d put off going, and maybe I ’d stayed this 
time if she had n’t set up her forlorn piping. 
A polonaise is just a high swagger of a march^ 
no more dance of the hornpipe sort than stand- 
ing still is, and when the music is sad, like the 
* Oginski,’ it is all sobs and a catching of the 
breath. So I drops gently after the gig, and 
lets the ship move off with naked davits and 
hanging tackle. I hates to lose the Petrel ; as 
I looks up at it the spars was tossing against 
the moon as if it knowed, from flying jib-boom 
end to the taffrail, the whole yarn, and was 
uneasy as I was. I was sorry right off when 
I could n’t get back. A wind rose and carried 
me away. I lost sight of the ship and found 
no island. I felt it serves me right for desert- 
ing the poor lady. Some nights, when the 
sky was a mass of stars, there was liberty 
and brightness of morning, but the others! 


176 


% ©radons bisitation. 


Folks on shore don’t know what the dark 
means; at sea it is thick black, like velvet. 
Sometimes all the top of the water would 
flicker and gleam, as if thinking about me or 
trying to tell me something. One black night 
there comes up a wet squall, and the lightning 
looks to be slanting right after me. I was too 
scared to do anything at night, but on a calm 
day, though I didn’t know what way to go, I 
used to row and row till I was dead tired and 
didn’t care what come. I was lonesome for 
the lady, and 1 missed the noise of big sails 
beating the masts. I knowed no vessel would 
sight me, for often a haze shut the horizon in 
to within a few yards, and in clear weather 
my boat on the big blue made about as much 
show as a bird. I found I ’d only divided a 
clove hitch, the lady and I had each now one 
to ourselves. So I goes on, day after day, 
night after night, never knowed when some 
big monster might knock my boat over and 
drag me down, and soon I had nothing left to 
eat. One night the full moon hangs like a 
big gold-piece in the sky, and I could seem to 
hear the lady singing the Ukrainian love-song, 
* The Moon.’ I could n’t bear to hear her — it 
was sweet, but just like storm-clouds coming 
up, it made me want to cry — yet the time had 


% (©rarious Visitation. 


177 


come when I begins to whistle it for company 
every night. I got forgetful spells, when I 
did n’t know how I come to be there alone, 
and, by the powers! each day and night 
seemed a year long. It was a rum start to 
find the Jolly Polly had got me, but the queer- 
est of all was when the lookout soon after 
sighted an island, so far away, shining and 
sparkling, and the water pounding so white on 
the reef I thinks of a bit of green glass dropped 
in snow. The air was so clear, like looking 
through a telescope, we see a man come to the 
shore long afore we gets nigh. The sun was 
like a ball of fire sinking into an ocean as of 
blood ; there was a red glare on the whitening 
breakers, on clouds of sea-birds, on the dazzle 
of green and white, and on that figure standing 
on the beach, as if he’d sent for us, the man 
the crew of the Petrel thought had danger in 
him, they says: 

** * He and his shadow is the worst cards in 
the pack 1 ’ 

** It was calm as if he had been tying up 
the winds in knots of his handkerchief. Here 
was the Petrel coming right back where 
she’d been set adrift, and there stood, by 
the men’s yarns, a Finn who could sail a 
ship in contrary winds. 


178 


^ 0rariou5 Visitation. 


“‘The Knave of Spades/ they calls him, 
‘and his shadow, the Nine Spot?* 

“There was a little imp standing beside 
him, no bigger than a sprit-sail knot, and I 
says to myself: 

“ ‘That*s the Ace!* 

Here the restless boy left the room, run- 
ning to the front door and back. I thought he 
feared the Finn might not like his words ; still 
he had been dodging out and in all the 
evening. 

“When I see two ships driving tandem,** 
said the sailor, “and as they draws near 
makes out that the hind one is the Petrel, I 
was struck all of a heap. 

“ ‘ Shiver my timbers ! * says I to the mon- 
key. ‘ If it ain*t the whole blessed ship, from 
cross-trees to kelson ! * 

“And the monkey takes off his cap and 
scratches his head and smooths his chin, and 
tries, too, to think it all out. 

“ I see the boy on deck of the Polly, but no 
sign of the lady. They sends a boat off for 
me, and when I climbs aboard the vessel, here 
is Ivan ready to square off at me. 

“ ‘Do you know each other?* says the 
captain. 

‘“It*s the Knave of Spades! He has got 


^ Gracious t)isitation. 


179 


us back/ cries the boy. * The Petrel was 
here and he cut the hawser.’ 

“‘What could you see in the darkness?’ 
says I. ‘ It was Chocolate Charley, ’cause he 
suspects 1 wants to get aboard and leave ’em.’ 

“ ‘Where is he? Where are they all?’ says 
Ivan. 

“ ‘ Gone to the bottom or come out t’ other 
side of the world!’ says I. ‘ Black Bill give 
me a mauling, and they clears out when I 
knowed nothing. Where’s the lady?’ 

“ ‘ Gone,’ says he, and turns his back. 

“ The Petrel had a fiery set of Malays, Por- 
tuguese, Chileans, and a lot of half-breeds. 
Some of ’em had been ugly and put in irons; 
that cripples us by want of hands, and a big 
blow drives us leagues and leagues out of our 
course. They lays it all to the Finn. One 
dark night I was at the wheel, but I knows 
what ’s going on, that the first mate, who was 
on watch, is being gagged and bound. It 
wa’ n’t no use for me to try to stop it. 

“ Black Bill, one of the Malays, says to me: 
‘Old Jack of Spades, just keep off! You 
might have put one of your spells on ’em and 
saved us this trouble. But we ’ll keep you to 
whistle up winds for us.^ 

“Chocolate Charley, a quadroon, and 


i8o 


^ (Btacions bieitation. 


Gentleman George, a Portuguese, who might 
have been an earl, he was so high and mighty 
and lazy, gets the cap’n and second mate on 
deck by some trick, and then has four men 
seize each one. 

*‘‘Now,* they says, ^ we’ve taken the 
ship! You’ve got to agree to navigate her 
where we say, or we ’ll cast you adrift.’ 

‘‘ The cap’n was pluck clear through. He 
swears blue streaks and thunders out : ‘ 1 

scorn to even answer you ! ’ 

‘‘ The mate loves a fight, and he sets to and 
trips up two of the men holding him, and 
punches another on the head and doubles up 
the fourth by a dig in the ribs. 

‘**Look out for squalls, cap’n 1’ he says, 
’ll attend toy our men now.’ And he steers 
for ’em. 

** There was an orderly set on board, too ; 
they gets at the arms-chest, as well as the 
others, and comes a-running up and takes 
sides agin Chocolate Charley and his men, 
and so here was as pretty a fight as ever you 
see, bang of pistol and clash of cutlass in a 
pitched battle right off and the deck running 
blood. 

‘‘ ‘You ought to have sanded the deck first, 
man-of-war fashion,’ I sung out. 


% (^racioua bisitation. 


i8i 


“‘You mind your wheel!’ hollers Bill. 
‘ We ’ll sand the deck with bodies ! ’ 

“ There was a good deal of dull thumping of 
the deck, and many goes overboard without a 
boat and with a stiff air of thinking they could 
walk the water, or not caring whether land 
or water waits for their feet. The first mate 
was one of these, — died where he was gagged 
and bound, maybe from fright at being help- 
less. There was few left of the good men 
and true sort, and they was mostly the scared 
ones who never shows fight. The launch was 
lowered, the cap’n and second mate forced to 
go over into it by pistols held at their heads. 
The cap’n was fond of his ship, let alone the 
disgrace of losing a treasure-cargo, and as the 
Petrel sheers off his last look at us was pitiful. 
I knowed he was steering near the wind; 
they ’d killed him as much as if they ’d shot 
him. He was speechless, but the mate yells 
and yells back till the ship lost hail of him, 
telling the leaders of the mutiny what blasted 
fools they was, for none of ’em could navigate. 
The first thing was to help themselves from 
the ship’s stores, and they drinks all hands 
quiet for a spell. The poor lady had heard 
the row and locks herself up and tells through 
the door anybody that comes that she is ill. 


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% ^radons Visitation. 


She was such a frail wax-doll they cares noth- 
ing for her more than for a foam-wreath. 
They tears and yells and sings till they drops. 
When they sobers up, they has a long talk and 
decides to land at some island and bury the 
treasure to lose its link with the ship. 

“ * There was a stiff blow last night,’ says 
Chocolate Charley to me, ‘ and we knows 
who called it up, you Jack of Spades, and 
we’re not going to risk our cargo with jozi. 
Just you find a desert island now, if you 
values your life 1 ’ 

I knows more about setting a course than 
they thinks, so I steers in a certain direction, 
though it was many days afore we sights an 
island; and Chocolate Charley was suspicious, 
and used to stand and glare at me and want to 
curse, but hardly dare, ’cause they was afeard 
of the Finn’s power for bedevilment. And I 
don’t know but some of ’em thought I con- 
jured up the island we finds. It did look like 
a vision, with its coral-grit like drifts of snow 
heaped on the dark blue water, its tall spikes 
of grass, its clumps of cocoanut-trees with 
tufted heads, its glaring green, and its birds of 
gold and red and blue. We could n’t get very 
near, and the treasure has to be carried ashore 
by boat-loads, and some of it gets swamped in 


% (Sraciona Visitation. 


183 


the surf. I ’ll not deny 1 was looking at it, 
hoping it might. It took several days. The 
rest of us men goes ashore, too ; the scary ones 
had to help. 

‘M finds out, one afternoon, why supplies 
was taken off the vessel, too. Chocolate 
Charley was the only one for burying the 
treasure; Black Bill was for building a big 
raft, to get picked up with it at sea, and no 
proof it was a steal nor trouble of coming 
back to dig it up, and nobody else finds it. I 
overhears Gentleman George mutter : 

Mf we leave it here, we ’d better bury the 
Finn with it to leave him on guard.’ 

‘‘Mf you do,’ says I, * by the powers! re- 
member me when the next storm rises, that ’s 
all!’ 

‘‘At dusk I steals down to the water’s edge 
and waits for the steady ones, meaning for us 
to get back to the ship on the sly and get off 
with the lady and cabin-boy left on board. I 
could navigate well enough. There was such 
a thunder of big rollers I hears nobody behind 
me. The first I knows I gets flung up the 
beach. Chocolate Charley was sawing away 
on the hawser with his sea-gully. He had a 
sheet in the wind’s eye, and never thinks how 
taut the Petrel was pulling. When the haw- 


184 


^ (©racions bisitation. 


ser snaps, it jerks him into the surf. The 
vessel starts off in a hurry. I see the lady in 
the big stern-window, a light behind her. She 
springs to her feet. The boy shows dimly, 
hanging over the bulwark rail; I hears his 
faint cry for ‘Alexis ! ^ for we gets on well 
together. Chocolate Charley, carried by the 
tide, goes plunging after, as if in chase, and he 
never comes back. The scary ones did n’t get 
round. Black Bill and Gentleman George 
come running down, thinks I cast Chocolate 
Charley into the water, and falls upon me; 
Gentleman George, too lazy to do more than 
hold me, while Black Bill give me such a drub- 
bing I knowed nothing for days. 

“When I comes to myself there was no 
noise but the beating of the surf on the reef. 
It was broad day. There was this little 
man,” patting the monkey, “stands by me 
and looks anxious. 

“When he finds that I see him, he offers his 
paw, as much as to say: 

“ ‘ Let me know if 1 can do anything.’ 

•“ I was too weak for a while to stir. When 
I could sit up I see all the litter of raft-building. 
They must have shanghaied the timid men for 
the sake of having their help. They had left 
pork and rum and biscuit, ’cause they was 


% (Sracions biaitation. 


185 


afeard of me. I had been simply marooned. 
It wa’ n’t likely there was any cache ^ though 1 
hunts some, but finds no sign. The company 
of the monkey was worth more than the 
treasure there. Poor little castaway, he must 
have been some wrecked sailor’s pet, for 
monkeys are not found on those islands, and I 
never heerd of one that had evoluted into 
being born with a little cap, which he has on 
when I first see him. He was fine company, 
not to talk, but a deep thinker ; he used to sit 
by me watching the sea for a sail, and look 
dreadfully old and wise — seemed to know the 
most of the two of us. He would climb a tree 
and throw cocoanuts down, and take care not 
to hit me, and watch me fish, as if he felt him- 
self above such silly trifling away of time, 
always staying by me, unless he sees 1 means 
to shoot a bird; then he runs into the woods 
till the noise is over. Sometimes he would 
study hard over a tattoo-mark on my wrist 
and arm ; it was plain he thought it ought to 
run up to my shoulder ; he would push up my 
sleeve and puzzle over the matter and look up 
in my face. So I made out that his master 
must have had the long tattoo he was remem- 
bering. When I first see the Jolly Polly stav- 
ing along with the Petrel behind, I says to 


i86 


% 0racious bisitation. 


him : ‘ By thunder ! ’ And he claps hs paw 
on /izs knee, as if the sight was just what sur- 
prised him. When the Jolly Polly takes us 
aboard he acts all at home, and sits up in the 
rigging as if he was hired for the lookout. 
The boy and I could n’t talk much about the 
lady. We did n’t think to see anybody belong- 
ing to the Petrel, but as we goes into Honolulu 
I grabs Ivan’s arm, and says I : 

“‘Did you ever lay eyes on that man 
afore? Over there, at the top of the landing- 
stairs. See him stare at us ! ’ 

“ ‘ Lord ! ’ says the boy. 

“ But we never run afoul of Black Bill 
and Gentleman George, and you may lay 
to that. As soon as I stands up again on 
that there island I spends the same hour 
every night thinking of ’em and their raft, 
and dancing three steps to the right, three 
steps to the left, and three turns with my 
arms raised to the full moon, and whistling, 
whistling, whistling. You get great help in 
such things from doing of it in a lonely 
place; you needn’t think your wish with 
such heavy under-lines, so to speak; mine 
took to ’em like pitch. 

‘ ‘ There was a shipshape gale come up that no 
raft could live in / ’ ’ 


% Gracious Visitation. 


187 


The sailor’s little wizard-chum gave him a 
pat on the head, as if in high approval. 

Who the lady was or where she come from, 
nobody on the Petrel knew,” the big mate’s 
rumbling voice began: ‘Mf she’d waited till 
daylight the police or custom-house officers 
would have ketched her. It was along in the 
third watch she come gliding down the wharf 
like a black shadow. As she sweeps along 
the deck we see right off she was Ai, fore, 
main, and mizzen. Under her long, black cloak 
there was the edge of a primrose satin ball- 
dress. She seems sort of wild to find some 
one she expects to meet, and begs the cap’n 
to wait — wait — wait! But he sees she was 
a way-up lady and was afeard of trouble. She 
didn’t tell who was to come, only says 
‘Wait!’ Our supercargo was a stranger, 
who didn’t come nor send word. The cap’n 
scented some police business ; so off we goes, 
hand over hand, right on time. The cap’n 
give her the cabin the supercargo would have 
had, and the officials overhauling us afore we 
starts did n’t notice there was any door where 
the cap’n slid the big screen he kept for scary 
times. When we gets fairly off up she comes 
on deck. She had all us officers taut in tow, 
first look — she was a dainty duff, with lots of 


i88 


% Gracious ilisitation. 


plums, but she didn’t see anybody there. 
She just cries and wrings her hands and holds 
her arms towards the last of the Russian shore. 
It is queerly level to what this coast is, so flat, 
so low, just a pencil-line between sea and sky, 
the slope of the water often hiding the land, 
the lighthouse towers looks like sails. 

“*Oh! for your wings to go back — to go 
back ! ’ she cries to the gulls. 

“The captain tries to calm her, and gets 
her to go below agin, and there she stays 
for weeks. She ’d only just come on deck, 
biting lemons all day, when we had the 
mutiny. There was great wonder about our 
missing supercargo, and through that it at last 
got told about among the crew that the Petrel 
was a treasure-ship. We did have, but did n’t 
mean to have all hands know, six hundred 
thousand pounds in gold from the big Golenski 
mines, even where it was consigned kept 
secret, so far, by the captain and first mate. 
We had weeks of fog and days of gale, and 
that tremendous blow, after some of the ugly 
men had been put in irons, sends us far off our 
track, and the Petrel was a lost bird till she 
could have all hands at work. 

“I never sailed along of a harder set; I 
knowed Chocolate Charley, Black Bill, and 


^ ©rations bisitation. 


189 


Gentleman George was ripe for the gallows, 
but I didn’t think they’d break out this trip 
till I found them athwart my hawse. It was 
a lovely fight after I sails slap in. Blows and 
kicks and cries and stamp and rush of feet, 
and roar of shots and cutlasses clashing, and 
the deck slippery with gore ! Lord love ye ! 
it was fun ! Never got so thirsty in my life ! 
Pity the leaders got drownded. I’d have liked 
to dangle ’em, a pretty row of ’em, from a 
yard-arm ! If all the steady men on board had 
been decent and loved fighting as I do, as a 
baby loves sweets, we could have got Black 
Bill and his gang into irons. And when that 
mess of swabs cast the cap’n and me loose, I 
was swearing mad, ’cause I knowed we could 
have got the best of ’em, if there ’d been 
enough spunk on board. When the cap’n see 
his pet ship going off with this here precious 
cargo right afore his blessed dead-lights and 
knows the cruise is bungled for good and all, 
he jumps overboard. All his plans about ship 
and treasure, all his concern in life amounts to 
a few bubbles floating by me ! I must have 
been within half a plank of death, tossing in 
that there boat nigh upon a month. I got out 
of provisions; the soft-headed lubbers flung 
only a little stock on board; it’s a wonder the 


^ 0racious bisitation. 


190 


likes of ^em done so much. I turned light- 
headed, and when I hove in sight of the Black 
Gull Ijknowed nothing of it; but they sees and 
sends a boat. I was for fighting when they 
sheers alongside, and they has to seize me. I 
was sick for weeks after they left me at Hono- 
lulu. When I gets outdoors I goes to the land- 
ing-stairs and sits in the sun with other salts 
stranded there, to do my share of jawing about 
rot’ry storms and pirates. 

** There was a Russian not long from China 
and Japan that I had some talk with; but I 
never thinks, by a long sea-mile, that he 
knowed anything about the Petrel, till the 
Jolly Polly come a-towing of her round the 
bight. When I gets a bit over my own set- 
back by it, I sees a sudden change in this 
man’s face, a whiteness, a set holding of him- 
self together, as if some shock was a-threaten- 
ing to knock him to pieces. 

‘‘'Do you know either of the ships?’ 
says I. 

“He looks at me as though he didn’t know 
what I says; and it was plain he couldn’t 
speak.’’ 

The mate took the sailor’s cards into his 
ragged fingers with livid patches of nails and 
set himself to playing solitaire^ keeping his air 


% 0racious l^isitation. 


191 


of bluster toward the game, and fierce, even in 
his silence. 

“ The day before I was to leave St. Peters- 
burg,” said Stroganoff, **as supercargo on the 
Stormy Petrel, a note came inviting me to the 
theatre, signed by an unknown name. Lock- 
ing my door and lowering my window-shades, 
1 dipped a glass-brush in a corrosive liquid and 
wet the paper. The common ink vanished. 
The page turned blank. Then, like a flock of 
wild geese trooping across a pale autumn sky, 
letters in another handwriting rushed into 
sight. Here was a notice to appear that night 
at an * illegal ’ tea-party to be given by our 
‘Circle' at the house of Vassily Botcharov, 
late ataman or leader in a military affair which 
had failed. This was to talk of and guess at 
the unknown fate of some members of our 
Circle who had been lost by the late failure, 
doubtless carried off secretly. 1 was about to 
give up this life of constant dread. I would 
not have gone to Vassily’s but for the hope of 
persuading my friend Feodor Bolchakoff and 
his betrothed, Nadia Hilkoff, to also leave the 
country. They had become too well known 
as at least ‘sympathizers’ with the Circle. 
Feodor was still a ‘legal’ man, living under 
his own name, with a genuine passport, but we 


192 


% ©rations Visitation, 


knew he had been lately watched. He had 
‘ tarnished ^ his rooms by letting a refugee stay 
there. Nadia was an aristocratic convert to 
our Circle, had inherited money, and, to divert 
suspicion, still wore clothing too costly and ele- 
gant for one of her views. She looked very 
beautiful that evening when we three mingled 
with the dancers at a ball in the Taurida 
Palace; her dress was of point-lace, over 
primrose satin ; bouquets were held on shoulder 
and skirt by clusters of diamonds, and there 
was a string of pearls in her hair. Feodor was 
as fine-looking as she.** 

The Finn, leaning toward me with his eyes 
intently upon me, pointed to Stroganoff. I 
had a vision of this handsome man, not in his 
fur pelisse, but dressed as a military officer, 
gold embroidery on his uniform, diamonds on 
his heavy gold epaulets, buckle, sword-hilt 
and scabbard, stepping through the stately 
polonaise, with the beauty, in the famous half- 
mile of ball-room and conservatory with 
twenty thousand wax-lights on pillars, on 
plants, tracing border of friezes and outlining 
arches. 

‘‘ Petroff, one of the intermediate class who 
aid secretly and know movements and ad- 
dresses of the Circle and its friends, said in 
my ear, as he passed in a dance : 


^ (Orations Visitation. 


193 


‘ The wolves are out to-night.* 

This need not mean that they would visit 
Vassily. In a waltz Nadia whispered: 

M met Dudorov Katchenski.* 

“ ‘Where?* I asked anxiously; he was one 
of our ‘disappeared.* 

‘“On the Nevskoi Prospect. Swiftly as 
my carriage passed, he yet made the sign not 
to speak to him.* 

“We could not leave the ball too long be- 
fore others.** 

The vision fled. Stroganoff wore his 
pelisse and sat before me. The Finn sank 
back, drawing the long breath of exhaustion. 

“ Hours after midnight are especially danger- 
ous, yet Vassily*s safety-signal in his window 
awaited our coming. Nothing had been learned 
of other vanished members. 

“ There was still to be ‘ removed * the official 
of the Fortress, who had lately escaped the 
Circle. Such officers know our unbroken law, 
not to follow if they take themselves off; but 
he boldly stayed, and we had letters from the 
prisoners complaining of fresh cruelties from 
him. To decide who should move as our 
avenging hand, Vassily wrote ^Act!' on a slip 
of paper, folded and placed it, with many look- 
ing like it, in a Chinese jar, stirred them as if 


194 


% (Gracious tiisitation. 


a careful brew of poison, and offered the bowl 
to each of us. No sign was made as to which 
one had drawn the word. 1 feared Nadia’s 
heightened color betrayed her as its owner. I 
felt sure she had it when she gave all her 
jewels to Tchartkoff, an old gray-beard who 
had just been to Paris to sell such contribu- 
tions to the Cause and was going again. I 
urged her and Feodor to leave on the Petrel ; 
but, as we say, the mind muddled the reason ; 
they would not heaV of it. 

“ Tchartkoff startled all by flinging a big 
bomb among us. It exploded from the fall into 
a thousand bits of candy — a French device. 

** Ms it ready?’ he asked; for names of per- 
sons or things are left out of the Circle. 

“ M have to fit the touch-holes, that is all,’ 
said Vassily. His wary ear caught some 
sound, which made him snatch the candle from 
the window, just as Petroff tore up the stairs 
and burst, breathless, into the room, crying: 

** * Save yourselves I The police ! ’ 

** I managed to murmur to F4odor and 
Nadia : ‘ Come to the ship if you can get 
there,’ and then we had fled by different ways. 

** I doubled and turned through our secret 
roads, passing across gardens, and even 
through houses, but as soon as I stepped into a 


% ©raciotts Visitation. 


195 


main street I was stopped, and twenty-four 
hours later was on my way to Siberia, None 
of our Circle were in my gang of prisoners. 
There was no way to learn whether they were 
in some other lot or were not caught. To ask 
would bring them into danger they might have 
eluded. So with torture about them for my 
close companion, I crossed that awful desert 
where villages show like mustard-seeds, scat- 
tered so far in the white waste. To escape 
would be only to die by hunger or by wolves. 
Even the few trees hold their branches in 
gestures of fear and despair, softened only by 
powder and filigree of snow from a low sky 
of unbroken gray. The Great Post Road was 
punishment enough. 1 was saved from work 
in the Nerchinsk mines. I met in Siberia a 
high official, who, on account of old family 
obligations, secretly helped me to join, in 
disguise, a tea-caravan returning to China. 
Another journey of week after week, — that 
long land route to Shanghai, by sleigh through^ 
Siberia, camel through Tartary, boat and mule' 
through China; but now a sense of freedom 
gave me strength. j 

^‘Uncertain what to do, weary in mind and 
body, I wandered to Nagasaki, and then to 
Honolulu, where I lingered, not knowing fiat 


196 


^ (Gracious biaitation. 


I waited to see, with amazement, the arrival 
of the Petrel, to hear the story of the 
captain of the Polly, and to walk up on his 
left and say: 

M was the supercargo of that ship.’ 

“ I steps up on the cap’n’s right,” said the 
gruff Dmitrivitch, *‘and I says to him, says I : 
“ M was the second mate. ’ ” 

Furious with himself about his game, he sat 
glowering at the cards. 

Stroganoff had gone to the piano, and was 
softly playing. 

‘‘ Then,” said the captain, ** I sold the Jolly 
Polly and the chance of salvage-claim for the 
Stormy Petrel. We all had a touch of cholera, 
and there was not much left of us when we 
reached San Francisco.” 

“Thank you,” I said. “How I wish I 
could have seen what the lady had written ! ” 

The captain drew from his pocket a folded 
paper, yellow with age and blue with damp, 
opened it and read to me an appeal from the 
poor lady to her lost lover. The undercurrent 
of Stroganoff’s music made it seem very 
:ouching. 

“It has the stress of Mascagni’s Intermez- 

/” I cried. “And he never knew!” 

“ That is as it may be,” said Volokhoff. 


% ©rarious tliaitation. 


197 


** We cannot tie and unite knots in the 
thread of destiny,” said Stroganoff. 

“ It leaves the story so incomplete,” I said. 
** But that is real life. Or is it that our 
glimpse is uncertain?” 

“ Life is a bungled voyage anyhow,” 
growled Dmitrivitch. By the time you gets 
the hang of your sealed orders you’re too nigh 
port to set your course different, and you ’re 
sure to wish you could.” 

He was in another fume over solitaire^ glar- 
ing at cards and Ivan till the poor boy ran out. 

“What a man is to know would be sure to 
reach him,” said Volokhoff. “We have a 
story of a captain who put to sea without pay- 
ing a debt contracted on a relic of the cross. 
A storm arose, which he calmed by throwing 
overboard a chest with the money, which 
floated safely to the claimant. He was to 
receive it; it could be sent recklessly.” 

“As we say,” said Stroganoff, “what must 
be, must be.” 

“Now, she is dead,” I said, sadly. 

“What is being dead ? ” cried the Finn, with 
indifferent air, looking at me with pity through 
that veiled gaze of his onyx eyes, always look- 
ing in rather than out. 

“ If we only knew ! ” I cried. 


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‘‘Creations of one kingdom, marine, animal, 
or vegetable,” said Volokhoff, “frequently 
imitate those of another. So the spiritual 
body is often born with a mockery of physical 
blindness and deafness.” 

The Pole had glided into a strain by Chopin. 
“You are the only one,” I said, “lever 
heard interpret that angelic voice as I do. It is 
not grieving, but comforting.” 

I brought him my rhymes about it. 

FUNERAL MARCH. 

Chopin, 

Hear muffled throb of the heavy hearts, helpless and 
terrified. 

Death, like a wind, blowing fragile web of their affairs 
aside, 

Tore it and tattered and dashed it to earth, stunned, 
aghast, they chide : 

Merged in the One? Or transfigured self? What and 
where is the dead ? 

Death is a sphinx, in vain Life has put ear to its lips 
and pled — 

Blank desert space ! And may be no more though All 
were to be read. 

All of the body wants are met, 

How should the spirit famish yet? 

Its thoughts are dream and vision pearled, 

For its delight there lies unfurled 


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f 


Transcendent beauty of the world, 

Though but pontoon to bear ye, hurled 
Above what dizzy deep on deep ! 

Below illimitable steep ! 

Through vastness ye in grandeur sweep i 
Yet fear and question, yearn and weep! 

The answers in your longings leap I 

What know ye? Where Earth wheels in flight, 
Thrown by one of the shapes of might 
That weave the stars in web of light? 

What on the moon’s far side is Iain ? 

Why tide of wind and sea complain ? 

How thunder roars in rolling wane 
A burst of sobs through tears of rain ? 

Why sap in weed or pine-tree vein 
Stirs, winding as to piper-strain ? 

How one loam yieldeth balm and bane ? 

Could / change when the mere plum-spray 
Engrafted on the peach may stay 
An individual branch? Nay, nay. 

That great law moveth not astray, 

I still am /, shall de alway 1 

And I then gone because unseen. 

Though not when wall might intervene? 

Yet, Nature warns, mark shrivel, cower. 

The clematis ; the orchid dower 
Of hidden strength awaiting hour ; 

The deathless resurrection-flower 1 * 


* South American. One which the writer’s family has had 
nearly forty years, looks like a ball of brown evergreen, English* 
walnut size, but expands to a saucer-like lily whenever put in 
water. 


200 


^ ©radons bisitation. 


Though wide the field of night and deep, 

The dark no sickle-moon may reap, 

The dawn-flushed clouds in radiance heap ; 
Foreshadowings so round ye creep. 

But dull to miracle ye keep. 

For of the hints that hide and peep, 

How great is this; ye rise from sleep ! 

Hear leaden beat of the hapless hearts, sullen, 
rebellious, tried. 

None know the Truth’s rapt exaltation, or who could 
here abide ? \ 

Yet— Voice of tender vibration ! — now this their 
thought as they glide ; 

The dragging worm in his cloak of fur knows not of 
overhead. 

He, too, must follow his kin, wrap himself in a dying 
bed — 

What beauty rises ! What joy ! On inaudible wings 
outspread ! 

He read it aloud. He and Volokhoff looked 
at each other and then at me. 

They spoke together : “You are right, Mrs. 
Trevelyan.” 

Ivan came in, muttering: ^'Seiishas/ Set 
ishas! (Directly, directly !) 

Dmitrivitch muttered back ; “ They ’ll have 
to belay that talk ! ” 

Again that meaning glance ran round among 
them. 


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201 


Volokhoff rose, saying: “Vladimir, son of 
Stroganoff, it is time.” 

The clumsy bulk of Dmitrivitch, in my room 
filled with frail treasures, made his “Stand by 
to go about! ” as he rose, seem needful. 

We had a last round of tea with a general 
'^Fos/i durriviaP^ (Here ’s to you 1) 

“Mrs. Trevelyan, pardon our long stay,” 
said Stroganoff, with that unseen motion that 
gives play to the pelisse, crosses, doubles, and 
clasps it around the body, which it swathes 
mummy-like. 

“ You are not likely to see us again,” said 
Volokhoff. 

“ We shall not forget you,” said Ivan. 

Dmitirivich loomed over me in an effort to 
be gentle that was yet alarming. “ Recol- 
lect,” he said, “if your ship is ever in irons, 
on a lee shore, the Russians will come to the 
rescue.” 

“You will hear us spoken of to-morrow,” 
said the captain. 

“lam glad you came,” said I; “I am sorry 
for exiles.” 

“That word is not used in Russia,” said 
the supercargo. “We say — and please re- 
member us as — * involuntary emigrants.’ ” 

“ Sometimes you gets in the midst of a hur- 


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ricane and your masts going over the side 
before you knows it/’ darkly hinted the big 
mate, ** but don’t jyou be afeard. Just think 
of yourself as safe right among 

“ * Five betel-nut palms of Bombay.’ ” 

** Think of the marooned,” said the Finn. 

I opened the doors ; they passed out, bow- 
ing. 

The boy gave me the comforting cry of the 
sea-watch : ”A11 ’s well ! ” 

The monkey, impressed by all this leave- 
taking, took off his tiny cap to me, but the 
lurch of the sailor’s shoulder forced him to 
hastily put it on and clutch his master’s collar. 

They filed off into the darkness from whence 
they came. 

The mate questioned: pravif (to the 

right .?) The captain ordered : ‘ ^Na leva / ’ ’ (to 
the left !) and away they went. 

As their steps went down into Jones street 
their voices rose with true swinging deep-sea 
roll in other lines of that old, old chant spread 
from Breton fishermen to sailors of all coun- 
tries : 

The north wind, the north wind, 

The north wind came on to blow.” 

Farther and farther, fainting away in the 


^ (Sracious bisitation. 


203 


mysterious night, like a salt breath of mid- 
ocean, or cries of sea-birds over the lonely 
deep, a concentration of the poetry and color 
of a calling filled with the sublime symbolism 
of air and sea. 

So 1 lost my friends. 1 have never seen 
them since; but in nights of storm I have 
fancied I heard on gusts of wind their voices 
cheering me from afar with : 

“We were two, we were three, 

We were three mariners.” 

There was such a sense outdoors of the 
night being far gone that I drew In and 
locked the door, thinking “It must be too 
late now to visit that poor care-taker. “ To 
decide I looked at the hall clock. It was past 
two ! 

I slept late next day, only roused at noon 
by long and loud knocking at the front and 
back door, even upon the windows. I hurried 
into a wrapper and opened the front door. 
Who were these urgent callers, with eager, 
anxious faces, exclaiming, as if relieved, “ Here 
she is!** and “She is here!** and crowding 
upon my steps? Not only neighbors, but po- 
licemen and reporters and some of my friends 
from the Mission, Hayes Valley and Oakland! 


204 


% (Sracions Visitation. 


They looked at me with an air of doubting 
that they really saw me. 

‘‘You are alive, then!’^ a reporter said, 
and two or three of my friends began to 
cry. 

“Why not?” said 1. “Why do you come 
like this?” 

A policeman spoke: “The houses on each 
side of you were broken into last night and 
robbed, and the care-taker of the fine house 
was brutally murdered ! ” 

“ It was lucky for you,” said a neighbor, 
“ that you had a party.” 

“ You are mistaken,” I said. 

“Well, your house was lighted in every 
window, up and down, back and front,” said 
another. 

Was this the reason of Ivan^s running 
about ? 

“And we heard music! ” said a third neigh- 
bor. 

“Nothing else could have saved you,” said 
a fourth; “lots of folks know about your 
valuable curios, 

1 could not believe my kindly pink-cheeked 
blondes were in league with those criminals. 
I explained nothing. The reporters went off 
in a huff. One of my friends took me home 


% (Sraciotts Visitation. 


205 


with her. Others insisted upon coming to 
stay with me at night. 

It was late in the afternoon when I left my 
friend, a sea-captain’s wife living on Tele- 
graph Hill. I came down Greenwich street 
and was looking over at the green and gray 
of the Russian Church, thinking of Pouch- 
kine’s St. Petersburg: 

“ Under a pale-green sky, 

Weariness, chill, and granite ! ” 

when the Russian priest came up the steps 
at the corner of Washington Square. 

** Mrs. Trevelyan ! ” he cried. In a city of 
battle, murder, and sudden death, you are yet 
safe, thank Heaven ! ” 

‘‘Saved, too, by a call from some of your 
countrymen,” said I, and told the story. 

“ Stroganoff ! ” he cried, as if stunned, and 
made me repeat the tales told by the super- 
cargo and the boy. 

He grew younger as he listened, with his 
eyes on fleecy clouds in the west. “Poor 
Nadia!” he murmured. 

I had not yet told her name. 

The long slope northward of Russian Hill 
rose sharp-edged with light from an amber 
sunset, but that was not the gleam I saw on 
his face. 


2o6 


^ 0ran0tis Visitation. 


The slope is like the graceful flank of a 
mastodon, and, with the house on the brink 
of Vallejo street, overhanging Taylor, re- 
minded me of the children’s drawing on a 
slate, where a house in the left upper corner 
has a path leading from and to it, undulating 
until it forms an animal, with the house for 
its head. 

The Latin Quarter at this hour is like a de- 
serted village; but one or two passers-by 
greeted the priest as ‘‘B^tiushka” (father). 
One old man, more intimate, said: 

“ Good evening, Feodor,” 

The story was complete, I thought. We 
went down into the Square to cross by the 
diagonal path. 

“ The lady’s poem,” he said with a sigh. 
‘Mf I could only have read it!” 

‘‘ I remember it,” said I. 

We sat on a bench near the giant willow, 
and I repeated the lines as if another voice 
spoke through me. 

A CRY IN THE DARK. 

O, if I ^new, if I knew, if I knew I 
Against flood-tide of grief and dread and smart 
How prove my faithful love ? by what sure art 1 

The Judgment Day I shall forget to rue 


^ ©raciotts Visitation. 


207 


If it but bring us face to face, we two I 
Hear me ! though in abysmal broken heart : 

On pinnacle of joy upraised, apart ; 

Or here, unseen, the while I weep for you. 

Who shall forbid my message? It should leap 
The wreck of worlds, black chaos, touch with glow 
Cloud-drift of spirits in tumultuous flow. 

Your thought in sudden lift and splendor steep ! 

I call to you from my soul’s utmost deep. 

Now— you know, if you know, if you know! 

The priest’s face shone; the kindling of an 
inner light had grown into radiance. 

We left the Square, following Powell street, 
and turned up Vallejo, where Russian Hill 
seemed to rise to meet and listen to us, 
abruptly towering above us, dark, sinister 
even with its lanterns, like a ladder of light 
for several almost upright blocks. It took 
the part of a third person in our talk, one 
who knew most. 

The dog-howl whistle of one of our men-of- 
war pierced the air. I thought of the erect 
bearing of Volokhoff and Stroganoff. ** Is 
there a Russian man-of-war in port?” I asked. 

‘*No,” he replied, ” nor any Russian ves- 
sel.” 

The hill loomed nearer, higher, the street- 
lights wavered, as if the wisest one of our trio 


2o8 


IX 0ran0tis Visitation. 


drew breath. We turned up Mason street, for 
I must skirt the steep hill. 

** There are no strange Russian sailors here 
now.’^ 

** Would you be sure to know 

‘‘Certain; they do nothing new without 
burning a taper before a saint in church.” 

We crossed Broadway, and a few steps 
southward paused and looked back. I was to 
call here for my friends who were going to 
stay with me. 

“ Come to the church, to-morrow,” he said, 
“and I will give you a mol^ben. 

‘ ‘ What is that ? ’ ’ 

“ Prayer, chant, and the burning of incense; 
a service of thanksgiving to your guardian 
angel. You had a night-watch to keep you.” 

Even in the dimness 1 could see that sudden 
look of youth still wrapping him like a mantle. 

Aloft — over tightly packed roofs, rising high, 
crowding north and west above the Spanish 
church — the last street light of the great hill 
flared as if out of the sky. From our almost 
diagonal view across the block there looked no 
road to what seemed' a friendly sign from hid- 
den guard. 

I asked what I had not before thought of : 
“ Why do they call it Russian Hill ?” 


^ (gracious bisitation. 


209 


** Oh ! you have not been here long ; you do 
not know!** he replied. His right hand was 
on his breast. I saw the third and little finger 
draw into the palm, in the Russian sign of the 
cross. ** Years ago — before I fled from the 
Nerchinsk mines — they buried on that hill 
five unknown Russian sailors.** 






A SWORN STATEMENT. 



A SWORN STATEMENT. 


Being^ the Deposition of Mr. Audenried' s Valet. 


This ae night, this ae night, 

Every night and alle. 

Fire and sleet and candie-light. 

And Christ receive thy saule. 

— Lykewake Dirge. 


1 first met Mr. Audenried through his adver- 
tising for a valet. I liked his appearance, and 
engaged with him at a lower salary than one 
of my experience and ability will usually work 
for. He was then living in a furnished house 
on Rincon Hill, whence he could see the bay. 
He sat for hours looking at it and writing 
verses. He had money, but was neither 
young nor strong, and seldom went out. He 
had been very handsome, was still fine-look- 
ing, with eyes that glowed with a lurid, in- 
ternal fire. 

There was one other person in the house, a 
quiet lady, yet one to be noticed and remem- 
bered. I pride myself on my discretion. It 
was nothing to me how many ** Coralies’’ or 


213 


214 


% Sworn Statement. 


** Camilles” existed. It was long before I 
alluded to her, though I met her in the upper 
hall, on the stairs, and sometimes found her in 
the room with my master and myself, or just 
outside the door, standing near, as if waiting 
for me to go. After a while, I got the notion 
that she did not like me, and it made it 
unpleasant. After long thinking it over, for 
I did not want to leave, I gave a month's 
notice. 

‘‘Why is this, Wilkins?” says Mr. Auden- 
ried. “If it is a question of wages, stay on. 
I like your quiet ways,” says he. That is 
just what he says. 

“To tell the truth, sir,” 1 says, “it's not 
my pay — it's the lady, sir.” 

“ What ! ” says he. 

So then I told of her air of watchful dislike, 
and how I was not used to being spied upon, 
and that it was needless my recommendations 
could all show. He turned quite pale, so white 
that 1 thought Heaven forgive me if I 'd made 
trouble between them, for she looked sad 
enough anyway. He did not speak for a long 
while. 

Then he muttered to himself: **TAzs man, 
too!” 

He made me tell him all over again. Then, 


^ Sujorn Statement. 


215 


after a pause, he says: ‘‘Find me another 
place, Wilkins, and help me move/' 

So I thought there was a quarrel. We did 
move from house to house, from street to 
street, from city to city, all through the State 
and to others near. Mr. Audenried never 
spoke of her, nor noticed her, but as soon as 
she came, as she always did come, he at once 
gave the order to start. He seemed to watch 
my face, and I fancied he knew in that way 
when she was about. I wondered what their 
story might be, and tried to make out from 
verses he wrote that time, but all I could 
get hold of were these : 

PROPHETIC. 

Unto the garden’s bloom close set 
Of lily, larkspur, violet, 

Sweet jasmine, rose, and mignonette 
More beauty lending. 

Fair Marguerite stands in the sun. 

Plucks leaves from daisy, one by one, 

Whiie Faust, impatient, sees it done 
And waits the ending. 

See ! on the garden-wall behind. 

Their happy shadows plain defined, 

Bent heads and eager hand, outiined 
Like soft engraving ; 


2I6 


^ Sworn Statment. 


And there athwart their fingers* pose 
A shape whose presence neither knows. 
Mephisto ! ’T is his head that shows 
A cock’s plume waving! 

Sometimes we rested a few days or weeks, 
sometimes went on, day after day, without 
stopping, but she was my master’s shadow ; 
she followed us everywhere. I used to try 
and puzzle out what their secret was. If it 
had been love, it must now be hate, I told 
myself, seeing how they often met and passed 
without a word. He did not appear to even 
see her. 

We had come back to San Francisco, and it 
was nearing Christmas-time when 1 was first 
seized with my queer spells. We had taken 
another furnished house, far out and high upon 
Washington street. 1 thought we had got rid 
of the woman; but coming home late one after- 
noon I found her in the window, while my 
master had been looking over his writing-desk. 
Before him lay withered flowers, a ribbon, a 
lady’s glove, and a photograph with some look 
of this persistent woman, but younger and 
handsomer. 

1 felt uneasy. Mr. Audenried sat with head 
on his hand, lost in thought. When I spoke 
he did not hear nor notice me until I put the 


^ StDorn Statement. 


217 


medicine he had sent for into the hand in his 
lap. Then he did not know it at first, though 
in giving the parcel I touched his hand. Some- 
thing about him I could not describe kept me 
an instant motionless in that position, 

A stupor came over me. The carved ivory 
hourglass we had filled with Arizona sand 
from before the Casa Grande, our bright, 
thick Moqui blanket on the lounge, our 
foreign fur rugs, our Japanese fans, bronzes, 
and china — the whole room came and went 
as to one who is sleepy yet tries to keep 
awake. Again and again it vanished, re- 
appearing enlarged to twice, three times, its 
size. Then it was lost in a mist, from which 
rose a different scene. 

The chandelier had changed to long lines of 
lights, the pictures to great mirrors, and arches 
with banners and streamers. Devices in ever- 
green showed that it was Christmae Eve. I 
was aware of a rush and whirl of dancers, 
walz-music, flowers, gay colors, and the scent 
of a sandal-wood fan; but I saw plainly only 
one woman, young, gay, lovely, but with a 
faint likeness to some one I had seen who was 
older and wretched. I rubbed my eyes, and 
when 1 opened them at the sound of my mas- 
ter’s voice, it was the room 1 knew, with all 


2i8 


^ Bmoxn Statement. 


its familiar objects, and he and 1 were there 
alone. 

One day I met our quiet lady coming from 
Mr. Audenried’s study, and found him there 
in a fainting-fit. As I was helping him across 
the hall to his bedroom I had the second of my 
odd attacks. 

A dullness and vague fear troubled me. 
Our many-branched antlers, our lacquered- 
work and carved cabinets and great Chinese 
lantern, the stained-glass skylight, the big 
vase of pampas-grass, the open doors and 
windows, the sunny yard, with callas and 
geraniums in bloom, all wavered before me, 
went and came and vanished. 

I saw a room with flowered chintz in cur- 
tains and furniture-covers, a glowing anthra- 
cite fire, and Christmas wreaths hanging in 
long windows looking on frost-bound garden 
and river. And the beautiful woman of the 
ball ! Still young, but now unhappy, looking 
at me in despair. Both arms outstretched 
in an agony of entreaty, and tears rolling 
down her cheeks. Terribly distressed by 
her woe, I gave a cry of pity just as Mr. 
Audenried, gasping and falling on the bed, 
brought me back to him, to myself, and to 
his 


% Sroorn Statement. 


219 


Putting away his things for the night I 
found these verses in a woman’s writing: 

IN ABSENCE. 

In my black night no moonshine nor star-glimmer 
On my long, weary path that leads Nowhere 
I get no shimmer 

Of that great glory our day knew. 

I cannot think the world holds you; 

It is not ours, this Land of Vague Despair — 

1 scarce can breathe its air. 

I am as one whom some sweet tune, down dropping, 
Has left half-stunned by silence like a blow; 

Like one who, stopping 
In drifting desert sands, looks back 
Where sky slants down above his track. 

To mark the tufted palm whose outlines show 
An oasis below ; 

Like one whom winter wind and rain are blinding. 
And storm-tossed billows bear from land away. 
Who, no hope finding. 

Should yield himself to bitter fate. 

Can I do this! Ah, God! too late— 

Have I not felt thy dear, warm lips convey 
Commands I must obey ? 

Forget-me-not ! ” a kiss for every letter. 

“ Forget-me-not ! ” a kiss for every word. 

It could not better 
Have stamped itself upon my soul 
It passed beyond my own control. 

All thought, all circumstance are by it stirred, 
Invisible, unheard. 


220 


^ 0tD0rn Statement. 


Though, like Francesca, ever falling, falling 
Through dizzy space to endless depths afar. 

Thy kiss recalling 
Would charm me to forget my woe; 

Of Heaven or Hell 1 should not know. 

Nor as I passed see any blazing star. 

Nor mark its rhj^hmic jar. 

If such remembrance only — moon-reflection 
On depths untried of my soul’s unknown sea — 
Mere recollection — 

Could hold me spellbound by its sway. 

What of your true kiss can I say? 

Ah I that is wholly speechless ecstasy,— 

No words for that could be! 

I thought it might be I had myself grown 
nervous about the quiet lady, to have these 
crazy fits after seeing her, and I dreaded to 
have her come again. But it was not my 
place to urge Mr. Audenried to move, and he 
seemed tired of changing. 

One evening he had a severe attack of pal- 
pitation of the heart, and called me in great 
haste. 1 had been wondering what had put 
him in such a flutter, when that lady opened 
the door and glanced round the room as if she 
had forgotten something, but did not come in. 
Mr. Audenried was so ill that he had to sit up 
in bed and have me hold him firmly, my hands 
pressing his breast and his back. 


% Bmoxn Statement. 


221 


Again that strange dread and drowsiness fell 
on me like a cloud. My master^s pearl combs, 
brushes, crystal jewel-box, with its glittering 
contents, and a bunch of violets in a wine- 
glass on the bureau, his Japanese quilted 
silk dressing-gown thrown over a chair, em- 
broidered slippers here, gay smoking -cap 
there, and a large lithograph of Modjeska, 
glimmered through a fog, came back, with- 
drew again. 

The one high gas-burner became a full 
moon, the walls fell away ; I stood out of doors 
in a summer night’s dimness and stillness that 
make one feel lonely; grass, daisies, and but- 
tercups underfoot, and overhead stars and 
endless space. The beautiful woman, worn 
and wild-looking, with flashing eyes, stood 
there in a threatening posture, calling down 
curses ! I shrank in horror, though the vision 
lasted, as before, not more than a quarter of a 
second. 

Mr. Audenried, wasted and wan, had grown 
so nervous that after this time he refused to 
be left alone, and above all, cautioned me to 
stay beside him on Christmas Eve. 

‘^An unpleasant anniversary to me,” he 
says. 

The doctor advised him to change to a hotel, 


222 


^ Sttjorn Statement. 


to have cheerful society. We moved to the 
Palace Hotel, and to divert his mind from its 
own horror Mr. Audenried gave a dinner-party 
in his rooms on Christmas Eve. 

It was a wild night, just right for Tam 
O’Shanter,^’ which one of the gentlemen re- 
cited. The weather or my master’s forced 
gayety made me gloomy. There was a raw 
Irish waiter to help, and once I went into the 
anteroom just in time to catch him about to 
season one of Mr. Audenried’s private dishes 
from a bottle out of our Japanese cabinet. It 
was marked ** Poison,” but he could not read. 

**What could possess you,” I says, “to 
meddle with fkaif” 

“Sure,” he says, “the lady showed me 
which to take.” 

“ The lady/ What lady?” I says, trembling 
from head to foot. 

“A dark lady,” says he, “with a proud 
nose and mouth, and eyebrows in one long, 
heavy line.” 

I was horrified. I did not want to figure in 
a murder case. 1 liked Mr. Audenried too well 
to leave. I was too poor to lose a good place. 
1 resolved to stay and protect him, but my 
heart beat faster. For my own safety I meant 
to say over the multiplication-table, and not 




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% 0tDorn Statement. 


223 


get bewitched or entranced again. I told my- 
self over and over, *‘She shall not outwit 
me.'^ 

The wind and rain beat against the win- 
dows, and 1 heard one of our guests singing 
“The Midnight Revellers 

“ The first was shot by Carlist thieves 
Three years ago in Spain ; 

The second was drowned in Alicante, 

While I alone remain. 

But friends I have, two glorious friends, 

Two braver could not be; 

And every night when midnight tolls 
They meet to laugh with me ! ” 

As I took in some wine, a gentleman was 
saying: “ Too wild a story for such a com- 
monplace background as San Francisco.** 

“ One must be either commonplace or sated 
with horrors to say that,** says Mr. Audenried. 
“What city has more or stranger disappear- 
ances and assassinations.? There have been 
murders and suicides at all the hotels. Other 
cities surpass it in age, but none in crime and 
mystery.** 

It was a lively party. A love-song from one 
of the gentlemen turned the talk on love 
affairs, and 1 went in just as Mr. Audenried 
was saying: “Aaron Burr relied wholly on 


224 


% StDorn Statement 


the fascination of his touch. I believe in the 
magnetism of touch ; that it cannot only im- 
part disease but sensations. Holding a 
sleeper’s hand while I read, by no will- 
power of mine he dreamed of scenes I saw in 
my mind.” 

Trained servant as I am, I disgraced myself 
then. I dropped and broke some of our own 
bubble-like glasses I was carrying. I was so 
unnerved by this explanation of my queer 
turns. It flashed upon me how they had only 
come when I was touching him. I had heard 
a former master, a learned German, talk 
about his countryman Mesmer, and I under- 
stood that what had appeared to me in my 
spells was what Mr. Audenried was thinking 
of! 

I could scarcely recover myself for the rest 
of the company’s stay. I recollect no more 
about it, except that somebody played the flute 
till it seemed as if a twilight breeze sighed for 
being pent in our four walls and longed to join 
its ruder brother-winds outside ; and that Mr. 
Audenried read these verses of his : 


% StDorn Statement. 


225 


RONDEL. 

To-night, O friends! we meet “ Kriss Kringle”; 

He comes, he comes when falls betwixt us 
The chiming midnight-bells’ soft klingle, 

When, glad, we crowd round cheery ingle, 

Or, lonely, grieve that joy has missed us; 

Or, in cathedral gloom, pray Christus; 

Or drain gay toasts where glasses jingle. 

Though marshalled hosts of cares have tricked us. 
In wine’s Red Sea drown all and single — 

“ Christmas 1 ” 

Drown recollection that aiflicts us — 

Our bowls, like witches’ caldrons, mingle 
Too much of old Yule-tide that kissed us — 

The bitter drink that Life has mixed us 
Forget, and shout till rafters tingle — 

“ Christmas ! ” 

The last guest had hardly gone when Mrs. 
Carnavon’s card was brought up. This was 
an elderly lady we had met in our travels, 
who took an interest in Mr. Audenried’s case, 
though a stranger. She came in, bright and 
chatty, and my master was so cheered up by 
it that he readily let me leave. 

I did not want to go. I had not been drink- 
ing ; I was well and in my right mind, but my 
whole skin seemed to draw up with a shiver 
and thrill as at some near terror. But he sent 
me to a druggist to have Mrs. Carnavon’s 
vinaigrette refilled. 


226 


^ Sroorn Statement. 


As I left the passage to our suite of rooms 
and turned into the long, lonesome hall, more 
dreary than ever in its vastness at this quiet, 
late hour, I saw a little way ahead our bru- 
nette stepping into the elevator. I fancied a 
mocking smile on her face as she looked back 
at me. I forgot the multiplication-table, whose 
fixed rules were to keep me in my senses. 
For the first time it struck me that she was 
the woman of my visions, grown older and 
sadder. 

I hurried, but when 1 reached the door 
she had gone, and stout Mrs. Lisgar was 
coming up, like the change of figures in a 
pantomime. She was another mystery of 
mine; for her maid had told me Mrs. Lisgar 
and my master knew each other abroad, but 
were sworn foes now, neither of us knew 
why. 

‘‘I beg your pardon. Madam,” I says; ‘‘did 
you see the lady who just went down? A 
handsome brunette, with eyebrows that join 
above a Roman nose, and a very short upper 
lip. Where did she go?” 

Mrs. Lisgar swelled bigger and redder, 
‘‘ Has Mr. Audenried sent you to annoy me?” 
she says. 

‘‘Certainly not. Madam,” says 1. ‘‘But I 


^ StDorn Statement. 


227 


saw her! — heavy, meeting eyebrows, scorn- 
ful mouth, and — ” 

“ Silence, sir 1 ” she cried. “ There was no 
one in the elevator. Don’t you know you are 
speaking of my poor sister, dead for many 
years?” 

In my confusion I gasped out at random: 
“Mrs. Carnavon is here. Do you know 
her?’' 

Mrs. Lisgar says: “She was my sister’s 
most intimate friend. But you are either 
drunk or crazy. I was with her when she 
died in Arizona last week.” 

An awful suspicion seized me ; a cold sweat 
broke out on my brow. I had not lost sight of 
Mr. Audenried’s door. I bowed to Mrs. Lisgar 
and tried to hurry back, but a numbness in 
every limb weighed me down till I seemed to 
move as slowly as the bells that were striking 
twelve. 

As 1 drew near, I heard angry voices inside, 
then a fearful groan, which seemed to die off in 
the distance. But I found every room in our 
suite vacant, except for my figure, which I 
caught glimpses of at every turn, staring out 
of the great mirrors, ghastly, haggard, with 
bloodshot eyes, and a strained look about the 
mouth, madly straying among the lights and 


228 


% Qmorn Statement 


flowers, tables with remnants of the feast, and 
the disordered chairs, which after such a revel 
have a queer air of life of their own. 

A long window in the parlor stood wide 
open. Chilled with fright, with I don^t know 
what vague thought, I ran and looked out. 
Six stories from the street, nothing to be seen 
outside but the night and storm, neither on 
the lighted pavement far below, nor among 
drifting clouds overhead ! Nothing but impen- 
etrable darkness then and afterward over Mr. 
Audenried^s fate. 

This is all I can tell of the well-known 
strange disappearance of my unhappy master. 
It is the truth, the whole truth and nothing 
but the truth 


THE SECOND CARD WINS 






“THE SECOND CARD WINS.” 


A bouse with two doors is difBcuIt to Spanish Proverb. 


I.— THE LOVELY MRS. CLARE SPEAKS. 

I read people at a glance — always could; it 
was born in me, as it seems to have been born 
in my husband to dispute it; and 1 don’t care 
what he says, 1 shall still think there was 
some strange secret between Mark Dillon and 
that woman. There was always something 
queer about him. I saw it at first, when Sam 
brought him to our rooms in the hotel and pre- 
sented him to me as his ‘‘old friend from In- 
dia, who joins us for the opera.” 1 thought it 
was shyness that kept him dumb, for he only 
bowed and stared. 

“Oh, from India!” I cried, warmly, shak- 
ing hands; “the one I am to thank for the 
rare fan sent to Sam’s wife ! I am so glad to 
meet you.” 

^^You have it, then?” he said, looking 
closely at me. 


231 


Qeronb tDins.” 


232 


He was plainly struck with Sam^s taste in 
the choice of a wife. He never got over his 
surprise, but always watched me with a 
puzzled air, as he might look at a strange 
bird or flower, even turning to gaze after me. 

“Yes, indeed, among my treasures,*^ 1 said. 
“ I was waiting for Sam to take me to the 
opera to-night. Here it lies with my India 
shawl.’* 

I took it up, a gay bunch of bright feathers 
with a picture on one side, mounted on sandal- 
wood and silver beaten by the patient toil of 
India into frostlike flowers and leaves, one 
spray even twisted round the red tassel. 

“Now, do tell me the story,” I begged. 
“ You wrote in the note to Sam which came 
with it that it was enchanted. What did you 
mean?” 

He looked startled. “ I had nearly forgot- 
ten that,” he said. “ It was a spell cast by 
an old Hindoo whom I vexed by smiling at his 
tricks of magic.” 

“Has it worked?” 1 asked, lightly, as I 
drew on my long gloves while we waited for 
Sam, whose man is so slow in the last touches 
of his toilet. 

Mr. Dillon looked uneasy. “ In spite of my 
common sense,” he said, “though I thought 1 


Second €arb tOina, 


233 


was above such delusions, I must confess that 
the spell is working. Where will it end?^* he 
asked himself. 

** Oh, how awful! What is it?’* I asked, 
adding with a laugh, ‘‘ I shall look at my 
lovely fan with a half fear of it.” 

Well,” he said, after a moment’s thought, 
“I will tell you, for it is not you who are to 
suffer. But, first, please tell me the date of 
your marriage.” 

“Why — the fan was among my bridal 
gifts ! Have you forgotten when you sent it?” 

“Oh — yes,” he replied, with what seemed 
a painful effort of memory. “ Well, this is its 
story : While 1 was at the Rajate of Puttiala, 
a rich and powerful baboo, Lall Chunder, 
asked his friends to come and see a great 
juggler show his tricks. Foreigners and na- 
tives all went, on elephants, camels, and 
horses. The baboo’s divan was in the centre 
of his courtyard. We sat round him, the 
natives smoking hookahs. There was a din 
of tumtum wallahs, and a troop of nautch- 
dancers. Then, to the sound of gongs and 
trumpets, came the sorcerer on a gayly 
decked elephant. He made gracious salaams 
to us, and, after sending paper birds and 
butterflies in long flights chosen by us, calling 


234 


“6ri}e Seconlr (flarb IDina.” 


up from a far-off pack any card we named, 
and other slight tricks often shown, he had a 
fire made, into which he cast fragrant spices, 
and, while they burned, he put on a robe 
covered with strange signs ; from a pocket in 
this he took a wooden ball full of holes where 
long thongs hung out. Grasping one of these, 
he flung the ball into the air with such force 
that it passed, unreeling as it went, at once 
out of our sight and stayed in the clouds. 
Then he made climb the thong a camel, which 
quickly vanished in the sky ; a boy was sent 
after, making many trips, and bringing at each 
descent something for the baboo’s guests. 
These gifts were left in a pile, while the boy 
was told to bring the rest on the camel. He 
went up, but the animal, now loaded, came 
down alone. The conjurer called three times ; 
then, in a rage, snatched a knife and himself 
ran up the thong. We could see nothing, but 
heard his fierce threats and the boy’s wild 
cries. He soon threw down one of the boy’s 
hands, then a foot, then the other hand, the 
other foot, the trunk, and then the head. He 
ran down, panting, and with blood on his robe, 
laid the parts of the boy’s body all in place, 
still raging at him, and gave them a kick, 
when the boy rose and bowed to us and 


Beconlr (Harb 03ins.’* 


235 


divided the gifts among us, who were in each 
case chosen by the magician, after making us 
pass singly behind the vapors of his mystic 
fire. With each thing he gave some warning. 
The natives, much excited, call on Brahma, 
Vishnu, Calle, and all the calendar of Indian 
gods; but the foreigners smiled at the fine 
jugglery, and 1 laughed out. The sorcerer 
looked at me long and gravely, and cast that 
fan to my lot. He came to me, spread it, 
and, showing me the picture on it, said : ** I 
have put you there. That figure will go away 
when you leave the world. Though you send 
this fan straight as an arrow, it shall yet 
swerve from its course. When ker hand 
holds it, will be when your sun sinks behind 
a golden mist ! 

But I don’t understand,” said I, ‘‘about 
the working of the spell.” 

“Come, come,” said Sam, bustling in, 
“what are you talking about, Mark.? You 
look too grave for opera bouffe,” and hurried 
us off. 

During the evening I overheard Mr. Dillon 
ask Sam, “Why did you never write how 
matters stood?” 

Sam took his opera-glass and looked over 
the house, and searched all his pockets for 


236 


Seconlr (Harir fiOins.” 


cardamoms, before he answered, ‘‘Why 
should I ?** 

1 knew at once what they must mean. Of 
course, Sam would prefer to have his wife 
seen to boasting of her beauty. 

After we came home Sam asked how 1 liked 
his friend. 

“ What makes him seem so queer I said. 

“How?’' demanded Sam, bristling, as usual, 
for fear some one may have slighted me. 
“What did he say?” he asked, anxiously. 
“ What was he telling you here ?” 

I told him, adding: “ He seems so absorbed 
and odd.” 

But Sam, who, while I was telling him the 
story, was crazy enough to knock over my 
best cloisonne bowl and break a Dresden vase, 
only said : “Asked when we were married, did 
he? The infernal climate of India must have 
affected his brain.” 

So 1 ceased to wonder at Mark Dillon’s 
odd ways, even at his looking troubled at 
seeing me carrying that fan, and really 
trying to have me change it for a carved 
cherry-stone bracelet he brought from China. 
1 did not mind his losing himself in thought 
when near us, or watching me, as if I 
puzzled him. Sam had explained it all, but 


0er0nb Carlr toins/’ 


237 


he could never set my mind at ease about 
that woman. 

I pride myself on my power to study char- 
acter and motives. It is simply impossible to 
hoodwink me. The moment I first set eyes on 
her on the overland train I thought, There 
is a woman with a story. And to think that 
even now I do not know what that story was 
is enough to make me let down my back hair 
and scream, as I did at Aunt Ann’s yesterday 
when the oysters were not cooked to suit me. 
She looked able to travel anywhere alone, as 
she was then. I had my maid and man- 
servant, of course. What with my lovely 
Skye, and ‘‘Ouida’s” latest, my shawls, 
lunch -basket, candy -jar, and writing-desk 
(for Sam expects to hear every day), I could 
not travel without ; I don’t see how any one 
can, though Babette was half-sick and wholly 
cross, and Alphonse smelled of cheap cigars in 
the smoking-car ; so that really I did have my 
troubles. She sat in the next seat, and 1 
could not help showing her some kindness in 
the way of canned turkey, and stuffed olives, 
and sherry, for she seemed strong in neither 
body nor purse. She had severe nervous 
headaches, and I loaned her my vinaigrette. 
As she returned it, just as we were nearing 
San Francisco, she said: 


238 


Second Carb toins.” 


‘‘You have been kind to me. I am very 
grateful. May 1 ask the meaning of that mon- 
ogram?’* pointing to the initials set in bril- 
liants in the side of the little gold flask. 

“ My name is Clare,” I said. “ Those let- 
ters stand for my husband’s name.” 

“Ah!” she said, “I am also Mrs. S. C. 
My name is Capel.” 

“ Indeed!” said I; “that is a name in my 
husband’s family. It is his middle name.” 

“ How strange ! but my husband has no 
relatives living,” said she. 

1 wanted to ask about her husband, but 
feared she was a widow. 

She seemed to read my thoughts. 

“ My husband is in California somewhere,” 
she went on. “lam going to try and find 
him.” 

“ Then you have not lately heard from 
him?” I asked. 

“ Not for ten years,” was her startling reply. 

What would Sam say, I thought, to such 
conduct in a husband ! 

“ How surprised he will be,” I said. 

“Yes,” said she. “I did not know where 
to write.” 

I wanted to ask if she thought he was 
worthy of such search, but I saw she was 


“®l)e Scconb Ctarb tI3ing. 


239 


poor. Perhaps she hoped he had money. Pos- 
sibly she was still fond of him. But I thought 
he had most likely forgotten her ; for, though 
plainly a bright woman, she had none of the 
dainty curves and fair rose tints that do a 
man’s eyes good — such as I know please Sam 
in me. 1 urged her to come to my hotel. 1 
had reached home Thursday night, a week 
before my husband expected me. 1 planned 
to surprise him, but found he had gone on a 
hunting and fishing trip to San Gregorio. 
When he came back, I meant to make him 
help my new acquaintance. I took her under 
my wing, chose her room, made Babette dress 
her hair, and we went down to breakfast 
together Friday morning, when who should 
sit in front of us but Mark Dillon ! He was 
so amazed to find I had come that he seemed 
really nervous. 

Bless my soul — Mrs. Clare!” said he, 
looking as much at her as at me, and then got 
very red and confused. I never quite knew 
before how much he admired me. I felt so 
glad to be at home again, I urged him to come 
to my rooms after breakfast and practice 
duets. When he came, Mrs. Capel was with 
me, and I presented him to her. I saw then 
he did not seem at ease. 


240 


6et0nb Carb toins/’ 


** This is a new friend of mine,” I told him. 
** Her husband is somewhere in California, 
and I am going to help her find him.” 

‘‘ You — help her ! Good gracious — no — yes 
— certainly — oh! of course — by all means,” 
was his strange reply. 

He seemed more absent-minded than ever, 
as if trying to see his way clear for something. 
At last he said: ‘‘Mrs. Clare, 1 got a letter 
last night from Sam. Want to hear it?” 

“ No,” said I ; “ I found one waiting for me, 
in case I got here while he was gone.” 

“Ah! with a sonnet to your eyebrow?” he 
asked. 

“No. Sam never writes verse to me now- 
adays,” I said. 

“He does to me,” said he; “and I want 
you ladies to hear it,” with stress on the word 
“ ladies,” as he saw Mrs. Capel about to leave 
the room. She waited. He went on : “ Sam 
has sent up a rare shot of his, a loon, to be 
stuffed for our club-rooms. Says he has not 
had very good luck this season, and it seems 
to have made him downhearted, to judge from 
his rhymes : 


Second iJDins.” 


241 


PORTENT. 

No looker-on — but wild growth, like the fern, 

1 feel the hidden current’s forceful sway ; 

I must attend to weird cries of the hern. 

Must round the marsh with phantom vapors stray. 

And pause, breast-high, where reeds and rushes rear 
Their flaunting craze, to watch the white gulls’ flight. 

As, high athwart wide-roving clouds, they veer 
Through darkening air, like waning flecks of light. 

The sluggish water dreads the storm’s first dip. 

Turns rolling eyes of light toward sullen sky; 

The winds, as in the cordage of a ship. 

Through tangled forest wander piping by. 

They mock the cries of shipwrecked sailors ; shout. 
And wail, and laugh, till 1, excited, scream — 

Dead silence follows ! for the goblin rout 
Then know man’s presence in their sylvan dream. 

] turn where cypress branches interlace 
, To arch against the sun’s red wane. 

Outlining vast cathedral’s gloomy space. 

Half-lit by Gothic window’s scarlet stain. 

Within this holy hush and solitude 
Entranced I linger, and forget— forget 
5 No Past above me here can darkly brood. 

Nor Future watch upon my footsteps set. 

What voice of hidden Mephistopheles 
With scornful echo startles the lagoon? 

I feel the current of my life-blood freeze 
^ At dread derisive laughter of a loon ! 


242 “ 0^1)^ Seronb €ar5 toins ” 


Alas!— although I shot him — in my dreams 

I hear his warning cry, and watch the storm, 

Till, where the lightnii f through the shadow gleams 

Upon the marsh, I see my lifeless form • ” 

** What nonsense ! ’M began, when the’ look 
on his face and hers stopped me. He had 
handed her the verses to look at, but, with 
only a glance at them, she was looking at him 
with a painfully earnest question in her gaze, 
while his face was that of a culprit who is 
caught. For the moment I could have sworn 
they were not the strangers I had thought 
them. Then she rose, tried to excuse herself, 
and started to go to her room, but was so 
faint, I, with Babette, had to help her reach it. 

‘‘Worn out from her journey,” I explained 
to Mr. Dillon. 

“No excuse needed, Mrs. Clare; I saw for 
myself.” 

Then he made a series of failures with our 
duets for flute and piano which were wont to 
make us sure of being asked to musical par- 
ties. In the middle of Drouet’s “Semiram- 
ide” he broke down, and turned it off by 
asking : 

“ Where did you make her acquaintance?” 

“ On the overland train. Ah, you are smit- 
ten, as 1 was,” 1 said. 


Second €arir toins.” 


243 


“Are you pleased with her?” he asked. 

“Sworn lasting friendship, and vowed to 
help her find her own true love,” said I. 

To hide his next mistake he said, “How do 
you know he is her own true love ?” 

“ Oh, 1 know he must be,” I replied. 

“The word ‘fickle’ is unknown to you?” 
he asked. 

“Yes. Isn’t Sam my model?” 

He failed again, and begged to be excused 
from further practice. 

Mrs. Capel kept her room with a nervous 
headache all Saturday, but on Sunday 1 made 
her drive with Mr. Dillon and me to the Cliff 
House. I wisely planned it so neither knew 
the other was going until too late to pause — 
starting with her and taking him up on the 
way. There was a warning of coming storm 
in the black haze that, as Mr. Dillon said, 
made the air a magic crystal, showing far-off 
places as if near, and by the time we had 
finished luncheon and gone out on the balcony, 
a wall of fog hid the sea but for what seemed 
a short space before us. Some one in the par- 
lor played a snatch of Wagner’s “Spinning- 
Song.” 

“Too monotonous,” I said. 

“The droning wheel,” said Dillon; “but 


244 


Seconbf Carlr toins.” 


you can hear the footfall of fate, see the red 
sails and black masts of the doomed ship, and, 
in Listz’s version, hear the wind whistle in 
the rigging/* He turned to her as if she had 
asked a question. ‘‘But when the captain 
finds Senta at her wheel, she is bound to 
another.’* 

“ What can be done then?** I asked. 

“Truly,** said he, still looking at her, 
“ what can be done? ** 

She thought a moment before replying: 
“ There is the decision of Heine’s lover: 

“ ‘As fickle as the wind thy heart 
That flutters to and fro ; 

With black sails sails my ship, 

Across the seas to go.’ ” 

He sprang up and began pacing up and 
down, when suddenly a full-rigged vessel, 
looming through the mist, passed within hail, 
more phantom-like than real. 

“ Like a dream ! ** she said. 

“And to them,** said he, “this shore looks 
like dreamland.** 

“Noiseless, ghostly, and swift as the ‘Fly- 
ing Dutchman,* ** she said. 

“How absurd for people to rave over that 
opera! ’* said I. “ That old fogy striding along 


Seconb (Eaxlt toine.” 


245 


the beach, so many paces to certain orchestral 
chords, and so on ; nothing to get so excited 
over, as folks like you all do.’’ 

*Mt is because he is fated — like the figure 
on the fan,” he said with a sigh, and asked 
us to excuse him a while. I was glad to have 
him go, for she had caught his trick of watch- 
ing me, and I was impatient under the musing 
gaze of two. 

When he had gone, she asked : “ Suppose it 
to be Senta who finds the Captain faithless, 
what ought she to do?” 

** You could ask no better person,” I said. 

^‘How do you mean?” she asked, looking 
at me with wonder. 

1 felt proud of being appealed to. / knew 
what should be done, and I told her at once : 
** Make him pay for the ship she sets sail in.” 

Money ! ” she said bitterly. 

” Yes,” said I. ”A man should pay for for- 
getting me. But such a thing is not possible 
to Sam.” 

*‘One would think you, who have all the 
money you want, would not value it,” she 
said. 

** Not quite all I want. Sam has promised 
me a hundred thousand dollars for my birth- 
day, next week, and 1 am glad to get it.” 


246 


“SClje Second Carir toins/’ 


‘‘A hundred thousand dollars! ” she said, as 
if deep in thought; and after a pause went 
on ; ‘‘ Suppose a woman to have had two 
lovers, and to have chosen the one who proves 
least faithful ’ * 

‘‘Don’t fancy such things I ” I cried. “Wait 
till he is found. Oh, why don’t you advertise 
for your husband?” 

“Lost, strayed, or stolen,” drawled Mr. 
Dillon, who had lounged back unseen, and 
startled us by speaking. 

“ How shall I make amends?” he asked. 

“By writing some verses about that mirage- 
like vision of a sail,” said Mrs. Capel. 

While he wrote, with note-book on knee, 
the fog cleared, and there was a strange sun- 
set which charmed them, but I was too vexed 
over the damp the fog left on my crimps to care. 

He said: “A poem in colors! ” 

She quoted: “ The setting of a great hope 
is like the setting of the sun ! ” 

“Why was that not said in verse instead of 
prose?” said he. 

“ Use it,” she hinted. 

“ It would be no worse theft,” he answered, 
“than ‘Sweet By-and-By,’ which is but a 
poor version of the old Irish air, ‘ Has sorrow 
thy young days shaded?’ ” 


S^conir Carb toins/' 


247 


Soon after he read to us : 

HAPHAZARD. 

In the balcony jutting above the wild ocean, 

Like scene an Arabian Night reveals, 

Where oft we linger, with gay emotion, 

To look at the rocks and the sunning seals. 

To number the clouds and the gulls, wind-shaken. 
And name the crowding white horses whose manes 
Float and flutter to spray as they sink overtaken — 
Th’ sea reclaims — 

’T was here we stood, when a mist unbroken 
Made the world seem sketched on a vapored pane, 
Gray walls surrounded, and blurred all token 
Whether sun or moon might arise or wane ; 

T was like a dawning or dreamy gloaming, 

And a potent spell upon you and me. 

For as we paused there our thoughts were roaming 
Ships at sea. 

As if in conjurer’s crystal, looming 
Through murky depths, sailed a ship afar 
Like thistle-down in its phantom blooming. 

Or a floating film a breath might mar; 

As if carved of the moonstone’s cloudy sheen. 
Through the mist it glimmered with softened glow, 
Ai .J its sails afret with the wind were seen 
Intaglio. 

And you murmured, “ Perhaps in that vessel one 
passes 

Whom we might have adored had we known ; 

And it may be their view our own so surpasses 
Their fantasies shoreward are blown.” 


248 


“ Q^conb €arlr toins. ’ 


“Alas!” I answered, “We have no warning 
When the things that almost occur are near — 

Or, like our dreams between dusk and dawning, 
Disappear ! ” 

Then they fell to talking of omens, second 
sight, the sway of one mind over another, and 
such ghostly stuff, to my high glee and scorn. 

** People who can believe in such things,’’ I 
said, ‘‘are easily duped.” 

“Mrs. Clare,” he said, “as I have often 
told you, you must some time be most com- 
pletely fooled. It is sure to be.” 

I had not time to tell him what a vain boast 
this was, when Sam, who had reached town, 
learned where we had gone, and followed, 
came out among us. As, nodding to Mr. Dil- 
lon, he rushed toward me, he noticed Mrs. 
Capel, but he was quite overcome at the 
sight of me. He turned pale, his eyes 
flashed, he could scarcely speak. 

“What is it?” I cried. “Are you ill?” 

He tried to turn it off with some pretense of 
a passing faintness, but he seemed stunned. 
Of course, I understood — he was vexed not 
to have been here when I returned. 

“Why did n’t I hear from you?” he asked 
Mr. Dillon, angrily. 

“I sent a dispatch in reply to your letter,” 
said his friend. 


Seconb (llarb toins.” 


249 


“ I never got ity” said Sam, crossly. 

I think Mrs. Capel must have one of the 
sensitive electroplate minds Mr. Dillon talks 
of; for she said nothing, only, turning red and 
pale by turns, watched Sam with searching 
gaze, as was natural when 1 had promised her 
his help. I hastened to make them acquainted, 
to tell him about her, and beg him to aid her 
to find her husband ; but she put up one hand 
as if to stop me, vainly tried to speak, and 
looking an appeal to Mark Dillon — I shall 
always think his queer aspect then was con- 
scious guilt, — slid out of her chair in a deep 
swoon, from which Mr. Dillon and I had hard 
work to revive her, while Sam looked on, 
frightened and displeased. He was so kind he 
would not come to town with us for fear of 
crowding us in her faint state. But I knew he 
was angry to have our meeting so broken in 
upon by a stranger. Indeed, it made him 
take such a dislike to her that he refused to 
have anything to say to her. 

** You are prejudiced,’’ I said. 

‘‘Perhaps \ am,” he replied, coolly, and 
would have nothing to do with her. He 
seemed all worn out by his trip to San Gre- 
gorio, and in the evening had a severe fit of 
cramp in his right arm and shoulder. My 


250 


Qeconb Carit toins/’ 


head was so full of Mrs. Capel that I had just 
burst out about it : 

“ I believe I know where to lay my hand on 
her husband.” 

Sam looked amazed, gave a husky sort of 
roar, and that very moment was seized with 
this cramp that kept his man rubbing him for 
a long time. When Alphonse had been sent 
out, I went on, though Sam had to look over 
some business papers, and could hardly attend 
to me. 

I feel sure that Mr. Dillon knows,” I said. 

Sam looked up as if annoyed. He cannot 
bear anything roundabout, while I like mys- 
teries. Perhaps because I can solve them. 

“ Yes,” said I, at the risk of vexing him 
about his friend, *‘7 believe he is her hus- 
band.” 

Sam gave a sigh of relief, the cramp had 
been so bad. With an admiring glance he 
cried ‘‘By Jove! 1 never thought of that. 
There ’s woman’s keen wit ! ” 

But then I always knew I was more shrewd 
than others. “As a reward of merit” he 
brought me some fine candies, saying, “A 
Market -street confectioner advertises these 
as ‘high-toned.’ Does he mean their rank 
flavor ? ’ ’ 


Seconb €arb toins/' 


251 


Perhaps they made me dream, as the lady 
in the next room says it is the sugar in the 
whisky-punch which flies to one’s head ; any- 
way, I dreamed strangely that night. I 
seemed to stand at the elbow of some man 
whose face 1 could not see as he bent over a 
letter he was writing — a queer letter; and 
the dream was so plain that I saw him trace 
each word, and, leaning over him, read as he 
wrote ; 

“As disembodied spirits we might agree ; but as life 
is as it is, so dependent on our mortal frames and tem- 
peraments, I have made my choice.” 

I roused from sleep to find myself in bed 
alone. Babette had left the night-lamp burn- 
ing, as usual. I knew Sam was in the next 
room casting up accounts, as he often sat up 
to do. Then, puzzling over Mark Dillon and 
that woman, I dropped off again — to the same 
dream — the figure writing with face bent 
toward the right, and myself standing at his 
left shoulder. He had written on, and while 
I watched, his hand formed these words : 

“ Silence, with instant departure for Europe, with a 
solemn promise never to return or send a message to 
me by word or letter. These are my sole terms, even 
if I must pay at the rate of a thousand dollars for each 
letter in the words.” 


252 


Seconir Cari> toins/' 


Again I struggled to my senses ; I sat up in 
bed to be sure I was now awake. Sam came 
in, and was alarmed, thinking I was ill. 

‘‘ I wish,^’ said I, “I could give Mr. Dillon a 
piece of my mind.’’ 

** Better not meddle in what does not con- 
cern you,” said Sam, quite gruffly for him.^ 

An hour or two later, I was roused by Sam’s 
talking in his sleep. ” Is she not worth a hun- 
dred thousand dollars?” he muttered. He was 
dreaming of the sum he had promised me. 
Then he grew angry. ** Why won’t you 
go?” he cried, fiercely. ” There is the 
money! ” 

“Sam! Sam!” I called, “ who is meddling 
now with other folks’ affairs. You are dream- 
ing.” 

Only half-awake, he cried: “You shall not 
part us ! ” and grasped me firmly by the arm. 

“ What is the matter?” I said, waking him 
at last. 

“What was I saying?” he asked anxiously, 
and scarcely slept again. So I did not wonder 
he did not want to go to the theatre Monday 
night, as I had before his return engaged with 
Mrs. Capel and his friend to do. 

‘‘You must guard yourself to-night,” I said 
to Mr. Dillon, as we went to call for Mrs. 


“®l)e 0ccon5 Carb iXIina/’ 


253 


Capel. “ I have lent her the bewitched 
fan.’' 

1 did not think of his taking it seriously ; but 
he muttered: ‘‘Great heavens! has it reached 
her at last? ” 

“ What is that?” I asked. “ It seems to me 
we are all a little crazy about this stranger.” 

“ It is all your fault,” he answered; “you 
brought her here.” 

“Did 1?” I asked. “It was her absent 
husband — you know very well what brought 
her — I think you know him.^' 1 added this 
recklessly, but was surprised at the effect ; he 
got so excited. 

“Oh, Mrs. Clare,” he cried, “don’t ask 
me anything about it! I know nothing, noth- 
ing, nothing ! ” 

“As well as you know yourself I went 
on; ^^you are — ” I faltered. I felt I was 
verging on rudeness. We had reached her 
door. I dared not go on. But he understood. 

“/ — her husband! It is like telling a man 
who is bound hand and foot that he is free ! 
I—” 

But his nervous knock brought her at once 
to her door, and I lost whatever he meant to 
say. 

After we were in our box, Mrs. Capel looked 


254 


Seconb Carb toins.” 


at the play-bill. The burlesque Evan- 
gelhieE' she exclaimed, and turned to Mr. 
Dillon. ** You have known a burlesque Evan- 
geline in real life. There are such footballs of 
fate.” 

He looked quickly at me. ‘‘We will not 
talk of unhappy things to-night,” he said; 
then, turning to her, added; “Silence is 
golden: ” 

Bent on making us enjoy, he brought us 
flowers and candy, and talked more than his 
wont. He toyed a while with the Indian fan, 
sketching the history of fans, and ending, as 
he returned it to Mrs. Capel, with; “Among 
the Asiatics a fan on a plate of special shape 
told a condemned nobleman his sentence, and 
when he reached to take the gift, was the mo- 
ment of losing his life.” 

“What a sigh you gave as you took the 
fan, Mrs. Capel,” I said, “as \i you had been 
sentenced.” 

“To exile — with no hope of reprieve,” said 
Mr. Dillon. 

Some stir of late-comers caught my glance ; 
when I again looked at Mrs. Capel her breast 
heaved, the fan, half-open, shook in her hand; 
behind it 1 caught a glimpse of a long slip of 
paper, like a check. 


** ®I)e Seconb Carb toins.” 


255 


I feel faint,” she said. Mr. Dillon brought 
her some water, and then she sat back out of 
sight, and he talked to me about those we 
knew who were in the house. But as I do not 
choose to let people dupe me with secrets right 
under my eyes, I soon said: 

“Was that a love poem ?” 

“ What do you mean ?” he asked. 

“ That paper slyly thrust in and creased to- 
fold with the fan,” I said. 

I think the sounds from the orchestra 
screened a muttered oath, he looked so- 
angry. 

“Was it poetry?” I insisted. 

“ Not poetry, but a bit of philosophy — and 
a secret of mine,” he added. 

“ I shall ask her to let me see it,” I said, for 
I was provoked that he should try to fool me. 

He seemed confused, and, turning, looked at 
Mrs. Capel. The fan lay closed in her lap. 
“Allow me,” he said, gently taking it from 
her. At the same moment his glance, roving 
over the house, fell on some one he knew. 
“ Excuse me,” he said, and rushed out. He 
came back almost at once, and, sitting beside 
me, opened the fan, withdrew a slip of thin 
paper from the sliding sticks and gave it to me. 
I quickly unfolded it and found — a blank ! 


256 


Scconb (ilarb tDins. 


Mrs, Clare, vou have a very vivid fancy,” 
he said, with his cynical smile, which makes 
me sometimes almost hate him, and think if 
not Sam's friend I would cut him. 

” Only think,” he went on, ‘‘ how all these 
commonplace people around us have each a 
story as picturesque and diverting as any 
play! There is a chance for your fancy.” 

“ I should like to know all about their pri- 
vate lives,” I said. 

“Heaven forbid!” he cried. “Never try 
to go behind the scenes in real life. You 
would find the same dingy makeshifts, cur- 
tains, traps, and sudden steps up and down, 
as on the stage.” 

Mrs. Capel came forward, and seemed like 
herself again. But I watched them both, for 
1 felt that 1 was on the track of a strange 
story. Coming out, I was behind them, and 
found on the floor where Mrs. Capel had been 
sitting a sheet of paper, on which these lines 
were written (without doubt, Mr. Dillon had 
meant them for me. I cannot remember 
breaking any promise to him — that is, of 
course, just poetical flummery. He must, man- 
like, have forgotten for the moment that I had 
lent the fan, and that it was not I who would 
find them in it, and his feint about the blank 


Seconb Curb toins/’ 


257 


paper was done to hide his shame at his 
blunder. It was all quite plain) : 

A FANTASY. 

“ Eclipse, and sound of shaken hills and wings 
Darkening, and blind inexpiable things.” 

I. -THE FAN. 

Toy the most feminine ? Woman’s will ! Yet — 
Chinese the saying is — now I forget ! 

Ivory, filmy, the fan of frail fret 
Holding one realm 
With the Marie Antoinette collaret 
Baleful in ray, crime beset carcanet 
Famed gem on gem. 

Eight words by Chinese sage at Woman hurled. 

In minor tones my heart-throbs there upwhirled ! 

Bauble of lace all embroidered, unfurled 
Shadow in freak. 

That, at the court and play, feigned to the world 
Blush-roses bloomed upon rouged and empearled 
Pompadour’s cheek. 

That pedant ere he posed o’er learned primer, 
Quaffed Rose-In-Bloom romance in foaming brimmer! 

Down through the Feasts of the Lantern that 
glimmer 

Three thousand years. 

After the eye of fair Kansi lent shimmer 
Over her masque, premier fan, none make dimmer 
This of vague fears ! 


1 


258 Seconb Qlarb toms.’* 


II. — SPREAD. 

Reed broken ; trailing wing ; a darkened sky ; 
Each are inherence of that bitter cry ! 

Far, high horizon, leaning awry, 

A pallid moon 

Ruminant wandering through a blue sky. 

Curlew low flying, gull hanging high, 
Down-tilting loon. 

World-grief is through his murmur surging free. 
So moan the billows, and the wind in tree ! 

Who is here, roaming alone by the sea, 

Drift on the shore, 

Blown and oblique? Let the dream-figure flee I 
Why doth he, beating his brow, turn to me? 
What to deplore? 

His breaking heart in a proverb embalming. 

How could a cynic — in China — be harming ? 

Picture of dread, a prophetic alarming. 

Fate and despair ! 

Meanwhile the orchestra thrills with Its charming 
Traumhilder^ Lumbye, composer, becalming 
Castle in air ! 

III. — FURLED. 

Phrase like a ghost with a finger on lip ! 
Love-hooded heart like a bird let to slip ! 




Seconb (ITarl^ toms.” 


259 


Plume upon plume here with down on the tip, 
Hovered in flight 

O’er bramble-hid city, voyaging ship. 

Desert, mirage and simoon, but to dip 
At tranquil height. 

On wind of every fan blown to its aim, 

Blows, blowing yet, that sigh of wrathful blame ! 

Filigree-silver and sandal-wood frame 
Hint caravan ; 

Deep mining-tunnel with torches aflame ; 

Incense and rite in the great Brahma name. 

Blessing or ban. 

All the world over doth Beauty cajole, 

Love learn the wisdom of that Chinese dole ! 

Clouds of enchantment around you uproll 
From fan and glove, 

As if each flower you Ve worn left its soul. 

Like painted dream, where to Earth downward stole 
Cherub, or Love ! 

IV.— THE TASSEL. 

Few are his words, but how much they betray ; 

Pathos of novel or heart-rending play ! 

If— as the Magi held— though all astray. 

Life a blind road, 

I but intangible fibre obey 

Spun from unpitying star 01 my day. 

What may this bode? 


26 o Scconb €arb toina/' 


My heart his tent, I hear him low complain; 

Star failing, venomed flower, are in the strain ! 

Mine to be fashioned like mere tassel-skein ? 

Frosted the flame. 

Chill of your coldness to fire in my vein ! 

// Flung from your hand as whim may ordain. 

Like puppet-game? 

V.-THE BOX. 

Passionate sage and I ! Hearts of one race ! 

On my Great Wall of woe his words I trace ! 

Trifle may prophesy, even that case. 

Cushioned with crape. 

Broad, rounded top with a narrowing base. 

Black on the white of your velvet and lace, 

A coffin shape ! 

The saying? Truth — in China or Japan- 

A woman's word is like a broken fan ! 

Tuesday, I was on my way to the street; 
the elevator had just touched the ground-floor, 
when I found that stupid Babette had given 
me the wrong gloves, two of the same hue, 
but where one had twelve buttons the other 
had but six. I signed to the boy to go up 
again ; but he waited for a couple just coming 
from the street-door, who entered, and, in the 


Seronb Qlarir toins/’ 


261 


change from outdoors to darkness, did not see 
me in the corner, but kept on talking. 

‘'You must cheer up,’^ she said, “and not 
look on life as a losing game.” 

“ Perhaps you thought it one,” he sneered, 
“till you had the chance to cry checkmate. 
You can talk thus when you could give up the 
certainty of happiness in a second venture, 
give up the most constant of your girlhood’s 
lovers, give up the opportunity to redeem a 
broken promise — all for the possibilities of 
money ! ” 

“But think of those possibilities!” she 
answered; “happiness is among them as 
surely as money need not be reckoned in hap- 
piness. you cannot judge; you have not 
known the bitter taste of poverty 

“ But I do judge. I know you are lost in a 
golden mist. I can not see how you could keep 
from seizing your freedom.” 

“At the cost of that butterfly’s wings?” 
she asked. “ Why sliQuld I break down a 
lovely flower? I could not hurt one who has 
been kind to me.” 

“ But my conscience is not easy to have 
matters go this way,” said he. 

“What is a man’s conscience?” she said. 
“ A passing gust of wind that blows in the line 


262 


*‘5ri)e Seronb Carl> tDins.’* 


of his glance, always coming up behind him, 
never blowing against him!’" 

“But he has obeyed the dictates of con- 
science in — ” 

“Dictates of conscience!” she broke in, 
“ in a man who knows no difference between 
a desire and a duty!” 

“ I can not wonder that you are bitter,” he 
said, “ to find your husband as you have — ” 

“Oh, Mrs. Capel!” I cried, grasping her 
arm, have you found him.? Oh, I’m so 
glad! — kiss me, my dear. Oh, tell me all 
about it! Come to my rooms — I will not go 
out this afternoon.” 

1 suppose I startled them both, seizing hold 
of her in the dimness, for she really screamed; 
“O my soul! I did n’t see you!” 

“ Great heavens! Mrs. Clare!” cried Mark 
Dillon. “Mrs. Capel is not well. She is on 
her way to her room to lie down. She has 
found — ” 

“A kind friend \xi you, Mrs. Clare,” she 
broke in. “I feel your sympathy. No — I 
have — wi?/ found — the man I married.” 

Then the elevator touched our floor, and she 
and 1 stepped out. Mr. Dillon bowed and 
went down again. Mrs. Capel’s eyes gleamed, 
and her lips wore a tense curve, as she begged 


“®I)e Second €arb toina/’ 


263 


me to excuse her; she needed rest. As I 
watched her pass down the hall, her air made 
me think of the woman Sam can not bear to 
see walk into the dining-room, because her gait 
recalls some one he has known. The more I 
thought over their strange talk together, the 
more sure 1 felt that there was some secret 
between them. I meant to know what. 

Our hotel gave a hop on Wednesday night. 
Sam and I were on the floor waiting for the 
music to begin. He often gets the band to 
play what he likes. 

‘‘Have you told the leader what you will 
have?” asked Mark Dillon, as he strolled up 
to us. “ Shall I name ‘ The Open Road’ ?” 

“Or ‘Man lives but once,’” Sam an- 
swered, and his friend gave the order. 

When we sat down, he joined us, saying, 
after one of his old, long looks at me : 

“Well — Mrs. Capel has gone.” 

Sam walked off, as he always did when she 
was spoken of. So dull of Mr. Dillon not to 
know / was the one most interested in her. 

“ Without a word of farewell!” I said. 

“Oh, yes,” he answered; “she sent a 
good-by to you. She got a letter Monday 
night that caused her sudden start. She 
meant to leave yesterday morning, but missed 
he train.” 


264 


“®l)e Seronb (ITarb toms/’ 


** Poor woman!’^ said I. *‘How I wish we 
could have helped her ! She had her journey 
for nothing.” 

‘‘No,” he said; “she gained by it — expe- 
rience.” 

“ Yes,” said I ; “ she is richer, I suppose.” 

“ Ah.?” He spoke as if surprised. 

“Yes,” I answered; “in thought and 
feeling.” 

“ Oh — yes,” said he; “yes, I think she is 
richer. It has been worth to her at least a 
hundred thousand dollars.” 

He was watching me so closely that I knew 
he felt 1 suspected him, and I changed the 
subject by asking: “ Isn’t it a shame about 
the break in stocks.?” 

“Break! Why, you are dreaming. Stocks 
are booming.” 

“ Oh, no. Sam has just lost in them the 
hundred thousand dollars he promised me for 
my birthday.” 

“Is it possible.? 1 was not aware — oh, 
yes, to be sure.” 

His wits seemed to be straying; but I 
suppose he was lost in admiration of my ex- 
quisite dress — gold-colored satin and cloth-of- 
gold, embroidered with seed-pearls. Or was he 
thinking about her.? 


0ec0n5 (Slarb toins.’’ 


265 


“How would her husband have felt if she 
had found him?“ I asked. 

“ How can I more than another answer that 
question?” said he. “ Ask Sam.” 

“lam sorry for him,” 1 said. 

“ For — whom?” he asked. 

“ For her husband,” 1 answered. “ He has 
lost a good wife.” 

“ Well,” he said, musing, “ I once thought 
she had a soul. But only a few souls are made. 
Half the world have none. 1 ’m afraid she was 
like the most of us, mere painted slides on the 
lantern of Life. But suppose — we will say 
suppose — she had found him married again?” 

“But,” said I, losing patience, “ she didn’t 
even find him.” 

“Oh, no,” he replied, quickly; “I didn’t 
say she did.” 

He had been idly playing with my Indian 
fan, and now suddenly asked if I did not think 
the figure in the picture less plain than of 
yore. “ The old juggler really could foretell 
then,” he muttered. 

But I wanted to solve the mystery, and 
began by asking, “Why don’t you marry?” 

He smiled. “ Shall I say I am the victim of 
the cruel laws of being, or of chance ? 1 only 

wait at a banquet where I inhale the odor of 


266 


Seconb Carb toina/' 


other men’s cake, and hear the plash of others’ 
wine.” 

“What do you mean?” I asked. 

“ That married women please me most,” he 
said. 

Of course, I knew it all the time, but was 
surprised that he owned it to me. 

“But lately,” he went on, “my wonted 
pose of looker-on has been disturbed. I have 
just been a heavy loser by getting too 
absorbed in another man’s game.” 

‘ ‘ What was it ? Faro ? ’ ’ 

“ No — yes — yes, it was a very good game 
of faro. Do you know what that is?” 

“No. How is it played?” 

“It is all chance,” he replied; “the first 
card loses, and the second card wins.” 

He bowed and loitered off through the 
whirling, jostling throng. 1 was glad to lose 
sight of his cynical smile and sound of his 
affected drawl. It was two or three hours 
later, just twelve o’clock, when, tired of 
dancing, I sat listening to the “ Oginski,” and 
waiting for Sam, who stood not far off, telling 
some one the love-lorn legend of the music. 
After the last bar, I heard his words: “ Here 
the Polish lover, mad with despair, went 
from the ballroom out into the night and shot 
himself.” 


Seconb Clarir toins/' 


267 


A chilly wind swept round me, a gust that 
tore my fan out of my tight-gloved left hand, 
which was trying to also hold bouquet and 
handkerchief, while I beckoned Sam to come. 

** They must have opened a window some- 
where,’* I told him. ** Do have it closed.” 

” I feel the wind, too, now I come here,” he 
said, picking up my fan, and going to see about 
it, but he came back without finding any 
reason for the blast. ” 1 feel it only here,” he 
said; but we went to our rooms. As we left 
the elevator, a rush of cold air again chilled us 
to the marrow. I shivered, and trying to draw 
my cloak more closely round me, the fan 
slipped out of my hand as if some one had 
snatched it, and in some odd chance was 
thrown over the banisters as we passed the 
stairs, and falling many feet on the marble 
pavement, was wholly shattered. I could have 
cried, I was so vexed to lose it. I wished 1 
had taken the cherry-stone bracelet. 

The house seems full of draughts to-night,” 
said Sam, as he locked our door. 

Shivering, too, I answered, ** I wonder how 
far Mrs. Capel has got on her journey.” 

** She can’t be colder in the cars than we 
are here,” said Sam, poking the fire, which we 
always have at night ; but all at once it seemed 
to have been needless, for we had to open the 


268 


Bcronb (larb iXlins. 


windows. Sam tried to comfort me for the loss 
of the fan ; but he was in a very jolly mood, 
and kept pirouetting all through the rooms. 
*‘By Jove!” he cried, “ this is a world worth 
living in, isn’t it? Oh, Minnie! you looked 
as sweet as a peach to-night. 1 ’m so proud of 
you ! I ’m very sorry about your fan.” 

‘‘ Oh, 1 am!” said I. “There is nothing like 
it in this country.” 

“Not only that,” he said, “but 1 hate to 
have Mark know it is ruined. But 1 ’m so 
happy to-night I can’t grieve so much. Come 
and kiss me, Minnie.” 

Dear Sam ! There never was a more fond 
and faithful husband. How I pity wives with 
husbands who can be false ! 

II.-- PASSAGE FROM THE DIARY OF 
MRS. CAPEL. 

Thursday morning. — My nerves have been 
so shaken by the ordeal I have passed that I 
could not rest well last night. As I lay in my 
berth the very motion of the train seemed to 
throb against my brain. “You are not the 
same poor creature who passed over this very 
road a week ago — not the same — not the 
same!” I could not keep from thinking of 
poor old Mark. How true he had been! But 







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“(El)e Seconb (Earb toins/’ 


269 


what folly it would have been to trust any 
man again! I drew my watch from under my 
head, made out to see that the hands were on 
twelve, and then dropped to sleep as to a series 
of strange visions. Out of blank darkness 
suddenly shapes itself before me that fan from 
India, which will confront me. I can not turn 
so that it does not follow, until 1 see and cry 
out: ** Why — ^/le figure has gone from the 
picture Then it all vanishes. Now 1 see 
the beach near the Cliff House. There is a 
full moon, and Mark paces there alone, though 
a high wind is blowing. But such a v/eight is 
on my soul that I groan myself awake. (Could 
he have been there, I wonder? Was his mind, 
looking out on the moonlit sea and lovely 
sands, reflected in mine, and vividly defined 
against the chiaroscuro of dreamland?) Then 
I am in a ballroom, the band playing the wildly 
sad Oginski,’’ full of deep-drawn sighs and 
longing. I am conscious of a swarm of 
dancers, yet seem to be only sure of Samuel 
and my lovely friend who sits near him, look- 
ing very beautiful, and takes no notice of 
Mark, who comes up with some queer dis- 
figurement of his face, and behaves very 
strangely, snatching her fan out of her hand 
and flinging it on the floor. (Probably I 


270 


Seconb (Harb toins.” 


dreamed this because I knew he disliked to 
see her have it.) She pays no heed to him, 
but shivers. Samuel gets her fan, and soon 
they all three leave the hall, she and * ‘ Clare 
acting as if chilly. Mark again tears the fan 
from her, and dashes it down as if from some 
great height. Dream-like, she does not notice 
him, though grieved to lose her fan, which, I 
see, is shivered to bits. Then I lose sight of 
all of them — I hang across the firm but un- 
seen arm of some shadowy presence that bears 
me away with it. I hear no voice, but feel 
borne in upon me these words: ** Beyond 
even the possibilities of Money!” 1 float in 
mid-air, though it does not seem so much that 
I move higher and higher, as that my old sur- 
roundings drop away — is /y^^z/the city with its 
net of lights far below.!* and that vast silver 
shield must be the ocean I Clouds bar off that 
view. I am chilled and breathless. How daz- 
zling the stars grow ! Is that dim speck our 
world — down there by the moon.? Is this — 
I feel the unseen arm loose its hold, and the 
vapor that seems like a presence shoots far 
above, as if torn from me. I am falling, fall- 
ing through endless depths. I awoke with a 
convulsive start, to find myself in the swinging 
train, with the crazy beat upon my brain. 
“Not the same! Oh, not the same ! ” 


Seconb (larb tOins.” 


271 


III.— PARAGRAPH FROM SAN FRANCISCO 
PAPERS OF THURSDAY EVENING. 

Last night, Mark Dillon left the hop at the 

Hotel, and with a party of gentlemen 

drove to the Cliff House. Leaving them at 
supper, he went out on the beach at midnight, 
and shot himself in the temple. No cause for 
the suicide is known. He was a man of refine- 
ment and culture, but had spent most of his 
fortune in foreign travel. He was well known 
in society as musician and poet, and in his 
pocket were found these lines (dated yester- 
day); 

A LOST HOPE. 

Oft when the sun has set 
A wondrous afterglow will linger yet ; 

Through darkening dome the trailing gorgeous hues 
Unite, dissolve, slow change to shadows gray — 
As echoes of some haunting tune perplex, 

That come and go and vex. 

And all the idler’s hollow thought confuse 
With occult sway. 

When a great hope has set 

Long must its halo stir a deep regret. 

Illuminating oft the gloomy thought 
With rays from sunken argosy. 

The floating cloud of foiled sweet fancies nuea 
By it, are viewed 

With aching heart and soul that, half-distraught. 
Yearn— oh, how helplessly! 


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IN SILVER UPON PURPLE: “STAR- 
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Pastel. 


" From no human equation can you eliminate that unknown 
factor, the most mysterious of all, the unexpected.” 


Midsummer and midnight in an Italian city in 
the sixteenth century. The narrow, crooked 
streets are dim and quiet. The purple dark 
above is strewn with worlds like silver sands, 
yet so solemn and mysterious one feels that 
they may form cabalistic characters, and 
dreads some consequence yet hanging in the 
stars, 

A nobleman passes along the lonely streets 
toward the cemetery, followed by his page, 
who bears a torch and a basket of flowers. 
The torchlight casts glints upon the heavy 
gold embroidery of a sinister heraldic flower 
which wreathes the young gentleman’s white 
cloak, and lets the white satin pulfing in his 
slashed sleeves gleam, the gems set in the hilt 
of his rapier flash. The frosty plumes in his 


275 


276 


In Qilvcx Hpon JJnrple. 


hat nod above a refined, proud face. Many 
women have sighed, have wept, because he 
passed them without a glance. The stately 
elegance of the man himself is far more than 
his adornments. What could thwart the will 
of such a fine, majestic being ? 

Those shifting, silver sands, that dust of 
worlds, athwart the purple dark long-blown 
and blowing far ! 

** These milky blossoms,” he muses, “are 
not white enough to match the purity of that 
fair girl who was to have been my wife. I 
ought to thank Heaven that I lose her only 
as the bride of Death. I could never have 
yielded her to any other bridegroom. My 
Beautiful! My Own!” 

He will never know that she loved, even 
married, another. He moves haughtily to- 
ward that unforeseen but immediate, sudden 
fray in which he is to be killed. 

Athwart the purple dark, long-blown and 
blowing far, those shifting silver sands, that 
dust of worlds ! 

The page tries to stride like his master, and 
longs to be the grown man who can do as he 
likes. The shadows leap from them, point at 
them, draw grotesque likenesses of them, 
crowd back and follow. Here is a lofty win- 


Jn Siber Epon purple. 


277 


dow, over which a fantastic gargoyle, half- 
demon, half-dragon, is lolling out its tongue, 
as if in derision, but a shadow closes its 
mouth, even cowls its head, and leaves its 
sharp claws, holding an open book, its coiled 
tail, by which it hangs from the roof, without 
meaning. Below, in the open window, a girl 
of scarlet lips and bright eyes is leaning out 
into the summer night. Many men, with their 
hungry hearts in their eyes, have followed 
her to and from mass. What shall assail with 
stifling torment a creature of such grace and 
charm ? 

Long-blown and blowing far, that dust of 
worlds, athwart the purple dark those shifting 
silver sands ! 

She sees the picturesque passing of knight 
and page. She knows their mission. She 
does not regret the death ; her own lover was 
too much taken by that girl at the late 
masque. ** I have been wrong not to let him 
know how his wooing has thrilled me,’^ she 
thinks. **When he serenaded me the night 
before, I neither lighted my window nor flung 
down a flower. I will make amends now for 
my long neglect of him. I will embroider that 
old love-song he sang for the border of the 
cloak he shall wear at our wedding. It shall 


278 


Jn Qiimx Epon purple. 


be of sky-blue velvet, the border of satin, 
the five lines, the stems of the notes, the bars 
in silver, the notes of seed-pearls. With ropes 
of pearls and white plumes on his hat, how 
handsome he will look! His beauty is a 
melody, a harmony for the eye beyond any 
the ear ever heard ! And its theme is Love ! ” 

The purple dark, that shifting dust of 
worlds, those silver sands long-blown and 
blowing far athwart ! 

The serene night is too pitiful to let her feel 
any foreboding of ill, of news that dawn will 
bring of a triple tragedy to-night in the ceme- 
tery, any hint of the secret which will be such 
distress to her to know — that her lover has 
already married the girl whose beauty be- 
witched him at the masque. 

An old nurse who has come from a palace in 
mourning, and whose black figure, thrown up 
by the circling rays of torchlight, is a blot on 
the paler darkness behind her, sees by the 
dancing flare the beatified girl in the window 
and the passing beneath of the jaunty, dis- 
dainful cavalier and his strutting, envious 
page. The lovely girl, with pink roses in dark 
curls shadowing her high forehead, wears deep 
rose-velvet, heavily embroidered with crystal 
beads, the bodice a glittering mass of them. 


In 0ihu*r Upon purple. 


279 


like a vision, all for an instant, of tears she is 
soon to shed. The old woman has a vivid 
glimpse of her against a background of gold- 
colored tapestry. The gargoyle grins, its 
mouth gapes into mock laughter, then appears 
to hastily shut, as grim shadows close around 
the dreaming girl and pursue the departing 
cavalier. 

‘*Now, afore Heaven! why couldn’t they 
fall in love with one another.?” the nurse 
mumbles. ‘‘Just as young and handsome as 
the others, and with the chinks I Yet these 
must go down through the ages, as they say, 
forever famous as the jilted ones 1 Nobody 
will be concerned about what they may have 
suffered. A dainty beauty, a brave gallant — 
they deserve a better fate. Poor County 
Paris 1 Poor Rosaline 1 ” 

That dust of worlds, those shifting, silver 
sands long-blown and blowing far athwart the 
purple dark ! 






“ARE THE DEAD DEAD? 


t 




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“ARE THE DEAD DEAD?” 


Who shall determine the power of sympathy, or assig^n to that 
power its limit? 


My story is so strange that I cannot expect 
many to believe it. Only a short time ago 
I myself would have scoffed at such a tale. I 
would not tell it, but for the faint hope that it 
may lead others — if such there be — to own to 
any like experience ; for I cannot think that I 
alone, of all the world, have had such glimpse 
of the mysterious outlying region usually 
veiled from mortals. Whoever you are, now 
about to read what comes, I implore you com- 
fort me, if you can, by writing: “ 1, too, have 
heard and seen!’* Come forward and share 
my burden before I lose my mind. 

Marvel not that I grant the request of the 
club which asked for this statement. Since 
that awful experience I feel lifted above the 
paltry secret-keeping of this world. I own 
our spiritual kinship. On the Day of Judg- 
ment all will be known ; why should I hesitate 
to give now a brief account of what, after all, 
2S3 


284 


ll)e JUeab IDeab?” 


might have happened to any one ? For we are 
all tangled in strange meshes of circumstance. 

But it must be seldom that one is allowed to 
see how one’s thoughts or acts here may, long 
after one is gone, affect people one may not 
have known ; to see how, before unguessed, 
life might have been different; to find that 
one’s passions last as strong as in life, or 
stronger. But are they not one’s self ! With- 
out them we might as well be lost in the 
Universal Spirit of the Brahmins. 

That no one has seen and heard such proof 
of this until now weighs nothing against it. 
Sir John Herschel has said, that of all the 
fusions that might be of the fifty or sixty ele- 
ments which chemistry shows there are on the 
earth, it is likely — nay, almost sure — that some 
have not been made. Those who cannot un- 
derstand my story should remember that to 
the blind the touch of ice or fire is the same. 
Those who doubt this tale are like the Indian 
prince told of by Hume, who would not think 
thore could be ice. 

I have another reason for writing this; I 
owe it to the club upon which I rather forced 
myself to tell the cause of my abject terror 
when they saw nothing. I know some of 
them thought I was crazed; they will feel 


tl)e SHeair lEJeab?’’ 


285 


sure of it, perhaps, when I say that, so far 
as human judgment could go, it seemed to me 
at first that my joining them sprang from the 
wealth of bloom this year on the great helio- 
trope under my parlor-window, and from a 
chance call ; but now these seem but links in 
a chain, running into past and future beyond 
our ken. 

I filled a vase on my piano with the flowers, 
whose strong, sweet, wine-like odor led me to 
rhymes. Then I played and sang till, through 
the dreamful scent and the charm of music, I 
was rapt in clouds far above the world, and so 
little pleased to have a caller that I paid slight 
heed to him ; and, on the plea of playing for 
him, did some hard practice, till, with aching 
arms, I turned round to find he had caught up 
the leaf of note-paper I had written on, and 
was placing his eyeglass to see what it was. 
With some notion that it was a joke to do so, 
he read aloud my 

RONDEL. 

Strange depth of passion freights the heavy scent 
Of heliotrope ; there breathes a discontent 
From pallid purple upon snow upthrown, 

Like haze of hills afar with white cloud blent; 

All vague regret and mad desire seem loan 
From odor blown. 


286 


tl)e ?Ileab ?SJea5?’’ 


Sweet things that never were pervade my thought, 

As when sad music sounds, with yearning fraught. 

That makes the present pass behind two tears. 

All that the future may unfold seem naught. 

Some past unknown was blest. Too quickly veers 
The lapse of years. 

I cannot read nor sing— 1 only sigh. 

A haunting presence in my room is nigh ; 

I suffocate with a delicious dole. 

What spirit stronger than my own is by? 

Is this fierce will, that can my mind control. 

The flower’s soul? 

Humph!” said he. “You ought to join 
the Ghost Club.” 

“What do you mean?” I asked. “I had 
not heard of one.” 

“ Well, it is kept quiet,” he said ; “but it is 
a small club, whose members go to houses said 
to be haunted, to see what truth there may be 
in the tales. You know that one out on 
Valencia street, near Fifteenth? They have 
spent some time there ; and in the large house 
here in town, on Sutter street, which was 
vacant so long, and at last taken, with its fine 
grounds, for a beer-garden.” 

“What happened?” I asked. “Was any 
one frightened into a fit?” 

“No,” said he; “they have seen nothing 




287 


yet. But if you watch to-morrow night, you 
will see them marching up here to the house 
over the way.’^ 

I began to be interested. That house!” 
I said. “I did not know anything was the 
matter with it. But I know it has long been 
to let.” I did not tell him what a part of my 
reveries it had been — not only for its pictur- 
esque look, but because of the music I had 
once heard from its windows. 

‘Mt is not easy to let,” he went on, “ be- 
cause the first owner poisoned himself there. 
Why don’t you join the club.? You are fan- 
ciful enough. I can give you letters to the 
chief members.” 

I might — for fun,” I said; “I have no 
faith.” 

Neither have they; they call it a quest 
for truth.” 

I let him write the letters — two to women, 
one to a man — three out of the seven who 
formed the club. The last thing that night I 
paused by my window to look over at the 
house — square, high, dark, outlined against 
the stars, far above the street, which was cut 
through the hill at some date since the build- 
ing of the house, which stands near the head 
of about a hundred zigzag steps, with landings 


288 




here and there at the turns, the first flight 
boarded from the street, and looking like a 
switch-tender’s hut on a railroad. 

Behind an uncared-for garden of dusty ever- 
greens, and half-hidden in yellow and white 
jasmine, the lonely house, with its closed win- 
dows, made me think of a giant with shut 
eyes lying in a garden under a spell. Did it 
ever dream? Sometimes I half -believed in 
flitting lights and changeful shadows behind 
one shutterless window upstairs, but thought 
it must be the reflection of the headlight of a 
passing street-car dummy. 

That house had long been like a conscious 
comrade in my day-dreams. It was linked in 
my mind with an offer of marriage I once had 
from one for whom 1 cared very little, but 
whom circumstances nearly brought me to 
accept. But through the open windows came 
such a strain of warning music that, creatures 
of chance impulses that we are, swayed by a 
look or a tone, my mind changed in spite of 
me. I was lifted out of my usual self, and 
had strength to do right. I never knew any- 
thing of the unseen singer but his love for 
his art as shown by daily study which I 
heard. That ‘‘sound which was a soul” 
surely saved me from making my life a mere 


t\)c ?I!eab 


289 


hard, rude outline, from losing all the pic- 
turesque effects of light and shade which 
romance, hope, and feeling give. But it was 
strangely done, by making the man at my feet 
so suddenly hateful to me. 

I could not help wishing to join the Ghost 
Club, though I thought our pains would be 
vain. 1 felt a strange interest in the plan. It 
made me restless that night. While dressing 
in the morning, I looked up again at the 
lonesome-looking house, and, nodding gayly 
toward it, cried : “ You have haunted me 

No one could have felt lighter-hearted and 
more free from dread than I, as during the day 
I presented my letters, and gained consent to 
my joining the club ^‘for that one house. 
Heaven knows I have now no wish to thus 
visit another ! 

When the club gathered that night at the 
doorway to the steps over the way, I joined 
them. A queer group. A believer, a doubter, 
an inquirer, a strict church member, and 
others who came, as I did, for pastime. Some 
were late, and had not yet come when we 
wound up the long stairs, and waited at the 
door for some one who was to bring the key. 

‘‘ Nothing is too strange to happen,’' said 
the inquirer, who, with his wife, seemed 


290 


tl)e Sllea^ 


gravely exploring a strange region. ** There 
is nothing which may not be in the wide mar- 
gin of the unknown around all we know.’’ 

‘^The Bible tells us,” said the pious man, 

* There is a universe to us invisible, but not, 
therefore, unreal.”’ 

*‘But 1 cannot think,” said the doubter, 
‘‘that those who have gone there think of us; 
for ‘ Death remembers to forget.’ ” 

“Yet Isaac Taylor thought,” said the be- 
liever, “the human and extra-human crowd 
might be within any given bounds; but as they 
are commonly unseen and unheard by us, so 
we may be the same to them.” 

“ Like the voices the Talmud tells of,” said 
a Jewess, laden with flesh and lace and dia- 
monds, “the sounds which passthrough the 
world, and are not heard by any creatures 
in it.” 

He nodded, and went on: “Jung Stilling 
and Oberlin also held, we can be only ghosts 
to them, as they to us.” 

“ No one ever saw a ghost not made by his 
fancy,” said the doubter — a Jew. “ It is 
always like that German tale of a student 
who fought a duel with a spectre, who, when 
he dropped the cloak from his face, was seen 
to be himself ! ” 




291 


‘‘That is why the club was formed/’ said 
the believer ; “ doctors own that more than 
one may have an illusion, but say there is 
no such thing as delusion for a group of 
people/’ 

The pious man patted my Spitz dog. “ He 
may see more than we can,” said he, “as 
Balaam’s ass saw the angel.” 

“Yes,” said the joker, “to ‘speak by the 
card,’ when we are within an ace of meeting 
hobgoblins, and the deuce is to pay. Tray will 
knock spots out of them.” 

As we went into the house, I found in the 
man who had the key an old neighbor. 

“Why, Mr. H !” 1 cried. 

He started nervously, and looked around in 

great surprise. “Miss W !” said he, 

“are you here.? — with those asking eyes of 
yours .? ” 

“Oh, I don’t believe in it,” I laughed; “I 
am only curious, like the rest.” 

Not so much then as since, I have thought 
of his strange look at me, and the shrug of his 
shoulders, which seemed to lift me off his 
mind, for he paid no more heed to me that 
night. 

The others glanced here and there through 
the open doors, with an eager air, in marked 


292 


tl)e ?Heair IDeaJr? 


contrast with Mr. H ’s studied unconcern. 

They noticed his manner, and spoke of it. 

‘M never look about me in this house,” he 
said, gravely, ‘‘or in any of these old places,” 
he added, and hurried off. 

The inquirer plunged down the steps, caught 
him on the first landing, and cried: ‘‘Why? 
Why not ? ’ ’ 

Mr. H hesitated. “Well — you might 

look for the ghosts of the restless, roving folks 
who wandered to California,” he answered, 
and ran down. 

As we stood in the hall, the believer made 
us a speech about being in a fit state, and 
urged that we should be placed in rooms by 
ourselves, or no more than two together. 
Though, after some wrangling, we were 
allowed a light in each room, we were to sit 
idle and not speak. I was left in a small 
room, with a window on the street. The 
others went where he told them. The silence 
which soon reigned made it seem as if there 
was no one in the house. Fearless as I had 
always boasted of being, a strange dread at 
last settled on me. I could not lose that feel- 
ing as of some one just at the door, which we 
know in vacant furnished houses. I tried to 
forget why we came. I counted, each way. 


ll)e Cllleab?” 


293 


the figures in carpet and curtains. I noticed 
all in the room, the common and uncommon, 
from chairs, table, and sofa to a veiled picture 
and an old-fashioned secretary, whose torn 
green silk behind the glass doors showed some 
stray leaves of manuscript. 

I wondered in which room the old owner 
took poison. Supposing it to be true, as some 
have thought, that suicide chains the spirit to 
earth, why should we know it? What right 
had we to pry into the unknown ? I shrank 
from the test, and was seized with nervous 
trembling. Even my dog grew restless, and 
ran home just as, much to my relief, a late- 
comer entered the house. 

He came in the room where I was — a shy, 
quiet young man, who went toward the win- 
dow, but, suddenly seeing me, started, stared, 
and dropped into a seat. It struck me some 
way that he was in awe of me. I was half- 
amused to think he might be taking a stranger 
for a ghost. 

Long we sat amid the shadows, silent and 
strange, as if both by some spell called up 
from the shades by the club. The oil-lamp 
burned dimly. I faintly saw my companion’s 
glowing eyes, and fine profile, like that on 
antique vase or coin, and the small spray of 


294 


tlje JDeab lUeab?’" 


the breath-of-heaven’s snowflake flowers that, 
with a blood-red pink, he wore as a button- 
hole bouquet. 

The floor cracked like a goblin telegraph. 
The banisters creaked as if people were 
going up and down the stairs. The wind 
in sudden gusts rattled the tin roof till it 
seemed like the tramp of an army. But I 
heard with my mind’s ear once more the 
passionate love-songs and snatches from operas 
which had of old so charmed me from this 
very window. 

I could not keep my eyes off this man. 
Dazed, I looked at him. Where had I known 
him? I seemed flooded by a tidal wave 
of memories — of what? — bits of dreams? — 
sleeping or waking ones? Was it a tide of 
inherited memories surging through my veins 
with the hot blood of some ancestress who 
had, like me now, loved at first sight one like 
him, this man of graceful movement and head 
like an antique bust? Who could tell? I 
gazed at him, mad with vague, keen longing 
and remembrance, excited as with wine by 
the new and piquant charm of feeling the 
overwhelming power of his presence, yet see- 
ing him wholly unaware of it, and even shy. 
I was under a spell subtle as the scent of the 


tl)e SDeab?’" 


295 


blossoms which nestled where 1 longed to lay 
my head, upon his breast. 

When the hours of our fruitless waiting had 
passed, and we all stumbled down the wind- 
ing, grass-grown steps, from starlight through 
shadow into the gas-lit street, I was dizzy with 
the intoxication of his glances, and lay awake 
the rest of the night. Who was he ? One of 
this crazy club. I wanted nothing to do with 
them. I resolved not to join them again. But 
just as I had waked all night, I dreamed all 
day. This, then, was love, to look into eyes 
of such dazzling enchantment that all else 
became dull. I could do nothing but think of 
him. I envied the girls in the ‘‘Arabian 
Nights,’^ who could always send an old 
woman to tell a young man he was loved, 
and bring him. I longed for the freedom of 
the birds of the air, who are not held in check 
by the straight- jacket of custom which keeps us 
from blows or kisses at first sight. As the day 
wore on, 1 could not keep from going up there 
to look about in the light. The key had been 
left with me. I took it, but hardly meant to 
use it. I thought I would walk in the garden. 
The still, old place had an odd charm for me. 
San Francisco was gone; its hum sounded 
faint, like a distant sea ; it seemed far off, as 


296 


tl)e JUeab ?Ueab?” 


if one of the vanished Five Cities of the Plain, 
to me on this hilltop, alone, with the fierce 
wind and dazzling sky, better comrades and 
more akin than the breathless, thronged 
streets and crowding buildings. The clouds 
floated near. The garden shrubs whispered 
their secrets. It was so solitary that, though 
the sunshine was over all, and an army of 
wall-flowers formed their torch-lit ranks round 
the door, there seemed to be no relief from 
a weight of loneliness. It seemed almost 
remote enough for Death to overlook. Was it 
haunted? The house looked at me with its 
pleasant windows, and lured me to go in. The 
sense of intrusion was too strong for me to go 
all over it. I went into the room where I sat 
the night before. I had not paused to mark 
the dusty gloom, or to feei nervous, when I 
happened to glance througn the glass of the 
secretary. I bent to admire the writing thrust 
behind the worn green silk. I saw my own 
Christian name. I opened the doors. Frag- 
ments which had lain there by chance so 
long, plainly worthless, at the mercy of the 
next tenant, whoever it might be. 1 took 
them by right of my name of Rose. They 
were leaves torn from a note-book, mostly the 
record of a singer’s daily practice; so many 


Ilje JDeab 


297 


minutes to these exercises or to those, or to 
songs, and so much time to French and Italian. 
But here and there came these entries : 

Rose ! sweet blossom in the wilderness of names, 
freighted with fragrance of lovers’ vows folded in it, 
with hints of passionate meetings and farewells em- 
balmed in amber moonlights, of dusky old gardens at 
nightfall, whose satin - cheeked flowers — wakeful, 
pale, and tearful, or crumpled, flushed, and warm, 
tossing in their dreams — all sigh their hearts out for 
the day who loved and rode away— for a Rose should 
have an ardent soul. She would not look at me now ; 
but when skilled in my art, famous, rich— who 
knows? 

This evening I saw her sitting in her window, look- 
ing lonely and sad, for her drooping head reminded me 
of a heavy-hearted flower. Could I but be her shelter- 
ing and supporting leaf 1 But I am like the ground at 
the feet of my Rose — no more able to come near her 
sweet lips, or touch her dainty hand ! Soon her cur- 
tains were drawn. Into the moon-lit space between 
our houses, from the depths of my heart, I sang 
Fesca’s impassioned V Maiden at the Window.” 

I love her; but how can that serve her — the love of 
one with no wealth beyond his silver tenor and his 
golden hope. She might as well be the wild rose who 
blushes in lonely woodlands, her sweet soul unblessing 
and unblest, and dies with no knowledge of bliss that 
might have been hers. She may never know of the 
kisses I long to give her. It is strange to think of our 


298 


t\)c lllieab IBeab?’’ 


cool unconsciousness of precious treasures of heart and 
soul in those around us whom we never know. 

How hard is my fate! My mind is like a phantom 
battle-field, with this conflict carried on in silence — an 
awful, noiseless war, as of shadows ; but, to me, what 
dread realities ! Sometimes I think I mus^ break my 
bond with my cousin. What a cursed fool I was 
to bargain away my freedom for the sake of her 
money, for study here and in Europe ! But love was 
to me only a name. When I made that contract 1 had 
not seen Rose. 


To see Rose sitting here before me, to hear her say, 
“I love you!” would be enough to come back for 
from another world. But what we miss here must be 
gone forever. 

" We shall go down to earth, 

And be raised again from her ; 

But there is no resurrection birth 
For the things that never were.” 

Sometimes I seem to live but to see her shadow on 
her curtain, her flitting form in the garden, or going in 
or out. Bliss and woe ! Then I force myself to scales 
and exercises of the like sameness, that may dull my 
senses like a narcotic. 


Last night, at my open window, I poured out my 
whole soul in the love-songs of Beethoven and Schu- 
bert. Edith supposed I was making out my hours of 
practice. The only neighbors near enough to hear 
may have thought me mad, but 1 did not care. I had 


tl)e IIIea& SDeab?” 


299 


seen her lighted room grow dark; I knew my voice 
rang through her dreams. The nightingale singing to 
the rose, I thought ; and was 1 not also leaning my 
breast against a thorn ? 

My God! What an awful feeling is jealousy! 
Three days ago, through our open windows, I watched 
Rose with a suitor. It was plain that he was wooing, 
and that she, though, it seemed, not much caring, still 
she listened. I thought of the “Malediction” from 
Hal4vy’s “Charles the Sixth.” My teacher, an old 
opera-singer, had told me how the spell of this fatal air 
followed the pointing finger of a tenor of the Grand 
Opera at Paris : now it was one of the audience who 
dropped in a fit; then he signed downward, and the 
shock was upon a carpenter under a trap-door ; again, 
reaching up, a scene-shifter fell senseless. I burst into 
the solemn air. If ever such subtle influence worked, 
I meant it should now. I wished there could be poison 
in sound. I hated that unknown man. I willed him 
to lose his cause. I thought how Stradella’s heavenly 
tones in his own hymn, the prayer of a bruised and 
rueful soul, changed the minds of those who had come 
to slay him. Could I make mine evil enough to crush 
that man’s hopes? My song should be an alembic 
through which passion, hate, and despair could distill 
a strong and malign force. I shook. I grew afraid of 
my own voice, of my own soul. The man rose as if 
unwilling to leave. I willed him to go. I quaked from 
head to foot. Cold drops beaded my brow. In the 
glass I caught sight of my uplifted, menacing hand, 
and of my eyes, which were strange to me, blazing 
with a fierce, inward fire, like those of a wild beast that 


300 


tlje IDealr IHeab?” 


sees its prey. He went. I drew free breath. I felt as 
if I had been out of my body. And I did not find my 
voice for two days after. Can there be truth in the 
old saying that curses come home? 

How can I bear to drift away with no anchor in her 
life? Oh, it is too, too hard. I have studied so long; 
I owe too much to Cousin Edith. I must keep on. But 
I must earn enough to pay her, and then, when I re- 
turn^ I shall be free ! O Rose! shall I find you here 
the same? Heaven grant it! I go— to study, to sing, 
so Edith thinks; but /— I am sure of but one thing ; I 
go — to return . / shall come back ! 

This was all of the journal. There was 
nothing else in the secretary, except a book of 
poems by the Countess Hahn-Hahn. Side by 
side with her “ Playful Love’’ was pinned a 
page of note-paper, which bore the last of her 
verses, in a version made by the writer of the 
diary: 

Must I die?— straight will soar 
My soul above to thee ; 

And thou new life will lend. 

New light to me. And I — 

Could I with thee quite blend, 

1 should not fear to die. 

Shall 1 with spirits keep? 

No ; though I soar, depart 

As spirits heavenward sweep. 

Yet th’ heaven is thy heart. 


tl)e ?IIeab Slleob?’’ 


301 


Thou wilt thy truant shield, 

And ever sympathize, 

And ope to him the field 
Of that calm paradise. 

And then the portal golden 
Soft, softly close again. 

Where I, in peace enfolden. 

Shall ever rest from pain. 

As, of a morn, the bee 
In tulip lies apart, 

I sleep all hid in thee, 

Swayed of and in thy heart. 

I was amazed at these bits of a shattered 
romance ; for the writer had long been known 
abroad, and I had read of his being made 
court-singer for life in a far-off country. It 
was like too late looking down some charming 
road one might have taken. I sighed. Was 
my sigh echoed, or was it the sound of the 
swaying boughs of the old gum-trees ? I could 
not stay. I ran home to think it over. I 
remembered the weird music which had so 
strangely mingled with my thoughts when I 
refused the man whom he saw. I was still 
lost in wonder over it when, in spite of my 
resolves, I joined the club at night. Neither 
my companion of the night before nor my old 
neighbor were there this time. 


302 


tl)e SDeab Sileair?’’ 


“This is a risky scheme,” said the believer; 
“ it is playing with edged tools.” 

“ We fail to see anything,” said the inquirer, 
“because visions must come without being 
evoked, as by the witches in the play.” 

“Shut off in different rooms,” said the 
joker, “ who knows which is witch.” 

“ What I can not make agree with there 
being ghosts,” said the learned-looking in- 
quirer, “ is this: Heraclitus says, ‘Nothing is, 
but all flows; being is not a station, but a 
motion, a constant becoming.’ So those out of 
the flesh are not the same as when in it. 
Always moving on, no one crosses the same 
stream or sees the same picture twice.” 

“ Then,” cried the joker, “ debtor and 
creditor of yesterday lose that relation to-day. 
Owe, let us be joyful!” 

“Buddha,” said the doubter, “called the 
soul a current of states ; when the mechanism 
goes to pieces, the soul is gone. It was only 
the mass of associations, experience, and 
memory.” 

“ That,” said the believer, “ puts man on a 
level with a table or chair.” 

“Yes,” said the joker, “ let us be chary of 
that unstable belief.” 

“ Life is a current of states,” said I; “ it is 


tl)e lUealr jUeab?’’ 


303 


not in our frames, or in years, but in moments 
of bliss or woe, hope or despair, pain, disgust, 
strength, or weakness. Those who have not 
known ‘ raptures and desolations * have no 
spirit to come back.” 

We were placed as before, but not without 
much dispute. 

I thought of the odd folks now in these 
rooms, queer as the thoughts that lurk in the 
cells of a madman’s brain. I waited, like 
them, but not for the same reason. I was 
anxious for his coming, though I felt faint and 
ready to run home to shun meeting his eyes. 
What if he did not come ? At the thought, a 
weight on my spirits changed the look of the 
room, as a cloud dulls the sunny landscape. 
With a thrill, a shiver of delight, I heard him 
enter. 

As he stood for a moment, looking at me over 
the lamp on the table, the faint radiance 
making his statuesque beauty glow out of the 
dimness as if conjured by a spell, the scent of 
the breath -of -heaven and clove -pink in his 
button-hole might have been that of spices 
burned for an incantation. What was it I saw 
in those fine eyes? Neither scorn nor pity; 
they were kind, but full of an overwhelming 
surprise. 


304 


tl)e SDealr JDeab?” 


‘‘Again!” he murmured; then kept the club 
rule of silence. 

I was confused. I could scarcely breathe. 
My head whirled. I reeled to a chair. The 
flickering rays of the lamp danced about him, 
like my restless thoughts, while we waited. 
Waited.? I forgot the club, the house, that I 
was in the city, in the world. 1 knew only 
that the man I loved sat before me. 1 could 
not love those who sought me. How was it 
that my heart leaped at a glance from this 
stranger’s eyes.? Stranger.? Had we not 
known each other from the first of creation .? 
The king had come to his own again ! 

After even the little I had known of the club 
disputes, I was not surprised to see the pale 
young man shun the others when we all left. 
As we went out into the windy night, the well- 
known street and view seemed new. I felt 
as if I had left the real world behind; that, 
truly, one “lived” only in “ raptures and deso- 
lations.” San Francisco, the club, were vague 
phantoms, dreams within dreams. I roused to 

myself at my own gate, with Mr. H ’s 

voice in my ear: 

“Are these all.?” he asked, looking after the 
members going down the street. And watch- 
ing, with a pang of regret, their vanishing 
forms, I forgot to answer. 


ll)e lUeab iDeab?” 


305 


Then I cried: “Mr. H , it has just come 

back to me how you urged my folks not to take 
that very house a year or two ago. Why did 
you do so ? ” 

“ I donT want to see any one live in h/* he 

answered. “My friend K , the rare tenor, 

used to be there. Poor fellow! He was to 
have married a cousin, whose money helped 
him to study music ; but I have always thought 
his heart was elsewhere. She held him in a 
thrall, which wore upon him; and the voice, 
most frail of all instruments, is hurt by worry. 
His was, and at last left him. This shocks and 
disappointment, killed him.^’ 

“Oh, I am so sorry!” I cried. “I never 
saw him, but I shall not forget his voice. In 
‘Robin Adair’ it was like ‘the flute of the 
twilight wind.’ ” 

“ Yes,” said Mr. H . “As I stood by his 

grave, I thought of what Antipater said over 
the tomb of Orpheus: ‘Here lies a poet; here 
lies a soul that sang ; here lies the sound of the 
wind.’ He did not want to die, though he 
would say to me, ^Then I shall be free!’ His 
cousin, a spiteful woman, seemed to hate to 
have him escape her control, though he did 
that whenever he sang. His voice raised a 
magic wall around him — we could only listen 


3o6 




afar. ^ After his death, she said to me, * He 
has got away from me now — but waii till I 
die!^ with a motion that was a threat. She 
would not return here, and has been trying to 
have the house sold.” 

‘‘But why did you not want us to move 
there?” I asked." 

“He once said to me,” Mr. H went on: 

‘“If, when I dream, I can see the old house, 
go over it, see her in the window across the 
way, may it not be that such pleasure, felt 
by me now through none of the nerves of 
sense, will be known to my spirit after I die ? 
Perhaps, unheard, unseen, the two worlds 
blend, and we shall move along our old paths, 
with rare visions of the living, who will seem 
unreal and awful to us. I wonder if my soul 
could then affect one I loved, or must 1 be a 
flitting spectre with no power. We shall see.’ ” 

“ Then you believe ? ” I began. 

“I have no belief,” he said, quickly. “It 
seems to me nothing is too strange to happen,” 
unconsciously repeating the words of a club- 
member. 

“No,” I thought, after he left me, “I should 
wonder at nothing after feeling this sudden 
deep interest in two strangers, such regret for 
the singer, and such absorbing passion for my 


t\]c IBeab lUeab?’’ 


307 


companion of the last two evenings.” Why 
had I not asked Mr. H who he was? 

The next night I meant should be my last 
with the club, shrunk this time to the inquirer 
and wife, and the joker. 

I half believe,” said the inquirer, ‘‘shadows 
are bound to go through tragedies whose scenes 
shift with no lookers-on, night after night, year 
after year, as if the hour could not forget, and 
would not let the place do so. It is the horror 
of Doom. But it is not for all to have it proved 
to them. Our inner sense has its bounds, like 
our other senses.” 

The joker wound the great hall-clock, which 
began to work with convulsive gasps, as if it 
had been scared into silence. “ Too fright- 
ened,” he said, “to cover its face with its 
hands.” 

The small room where 1 sat had at once a 
charm and a sadness for me. I was filled with 
the vain desire to have known its old tenant. 
I wondered about the end of such strong 
passions as his. Can they cease here ? Are 
they merely to brighten our path, like vivid 
colors in flowers and sky ? In fancy I heard 
again the lovely tenor airs from “Lucia,” 
“Faust,” and “Martha” which had of old 
rung through this window. I thought of his 


3o8 


tl)e iDeab 


journal, and his translation of the German 
love-song. And I was haunted — haunted by 
two lines of Jean Ingelow^s — 

“ I have no place on sea or shore, 

But only in thy heart.” 

But through it all ran the stronger under- 
current of longing for the coming of the pale 
young member of the club — a longing that 
made me blame my fickle heart, so touched by 
one stranger’s love and grief, and just as much 
thrilled by another’s sweet eyes; a longing 
that made me tremble, and made my heart, at 
the sound of his step, feel as if clutched by 
Fate, and nearly powerless to beat. 

He started at seeing me, and, pausing an 
instant, murmured, ‘‘Once more!” and sank 
into a chair which stood back to the door; and 
again I was spellbound by his shy but ardent 
gaze, by the scent of the same sweet flowers 
he wore. 

With none of my suitors, thronging like bees 
about the honey of my wealth, had I ever felt 
this tumult of emotion. I was glad of the club 
rule of silence. I could have thrown myself 
into his arms, but I could not speak. 

What was the fatal enigma his eyes held? 
They had a mystic spell, as if they had seen 


tl)e SUeab JBeab?’’ 


309 


deeper than most eyes. Looking into them, 
my soul was lured down an unknown tide, on 
and on, voyaging through their unspeakable 
glory, with glimpse of a new world behind 
them, dropping through endless gulfs, till only 
by a fierce strain I turned my head away, 
blinded, breathless, dazed, and awed; for far 
down in those fathomless depths I touched 
eternity — I found the immortal — Love! 

Sitting there so long, so still, it seemed to 
my strained nerves that we were like ghosts, 
and only the pictures on the wall had life and 
motion. The hall-clock groaned twelve times, 
but my watch lacked ten minutes of twelve, 
A cold draught rushed in as at the opening and 
closing of some of the doors. A nameless fear 
seized me. But a woman I had not yet seen 
with the club looked in at the open door, sur- 
prise, doubt, and scorn in her intent face. 

A woman more to be feared than a ghost, I 
thought, as I marked her evil look. She paused 
in amaze at sight of us. Suddenly the dim 
light wholly failed. To be in the dark was to 
recall the errand here of the club. It could not 
be borne, even with others near me. After 
crossing what seemed an endless space, 1 
reached the mantel, felt for a match, found 
one, and groped back to the centre-table. 


310 


t\)c ?Ilcalr JBeab?'* 


As I lighted the lamp, I saw him watching 
me with questioning eyes, as if unmoved by 
the loss of the light or its return. I saw her 
looking in with a wicked smile. A jealous 
woman, I judged — all the more as she drew 
back before he could turn to find the cause of 
my changed looks. But he was curious enough 
to leave the room. Was she his wife .? Was I 
bewitched by a man bound to another woman ? 
Has each case its like ? Was another man in 
this very house held in bonds.? These ques- 
tions perplexed me all night. 

The next afternoon I went over to look for a 
favorite lace handkerchief, dropped in coming 
out with the club. I found it caught on a 
thistle, near the top stair. It was Sunday, and 
the chimes of Saint Patrick’s Church came to 
me clear and sweet. Some of the words which 
are sung to the air they played ran through 
my mind: 

“ A realm of shadowy forms out yonder lies. 

Faint sounds of friendly voices come and go, 

That seem to lure us forth into the air ; 

But whence they come perchance no ear may know, 
And where they go perchance no foot may dare.” 

I looked at the old house, longed and yet did 
not like to go in. But I knew none of the club 


tl)e SDeab JDeair?’’ 


311 


were likely to come until night, when they 
were to make their last visit — and as for 
ghosts, had we not tested it? What worse 
than to be haunted by vain yearnings after a 
different past, or to know a present not to be 
shaped by my will because a woman may not 
speak first. Perhaps I was to fade — the un- 
gathered rose that cannot seek its lover’s 
hand! Surely, if he felt as I did, he could 
not long rest without seeking me outside of the 
club. 

I pushed in through the dreary hall. I 
passed on into the small front room. It gave 
me the same feeling of sorrow and regret. It 
was like the return from a funeral. How 
sorry I now felt that I had never known the 
people who used to live here 1 I had often 
thought, perhaps the friends we never meet 
might have been the dearest. I could not tear 
myself away. For the first time by daylight 
I looked from the window, which, to my sur- 
prise, had a full view of my own room across 
the way. They must have known more of 
me than I ever knew about them. 

The house shook in the wind, as if stirred 
by unseen hands, but in the room all was still 
as if in a picture. There were the rusty nails 
and black moss in the grass-grown garden, and 


312 




stairs, as at the ‘‘moated grange’’; but no fly 
buzzed in the window, no mouse squeaked in 
the wainscot, no bird chirped on the roof. 
Nothing moved but the clock in the hall, and 
the shadow of a gum-tree across the floor. My 
little dog and I sat still as statues. 

As in the gloom of Gerome’s pictures, rag- 
ged beggar and peddler, in the softened light 
of oriental canvas-covered streets, become 
grand and suggestive ideals, so in this dim, 
lonely room common things had a weird, un- 
real look; — the lounge took coffin-shape; the 
tall, narrow secretary loomed like a monument 
near it. 1 could fancy the veil over the pic- 
ture stirred. The chairs gave sudden creaks, 
as if bearing unseen burdens. 

I looked out of the window, and saw the 
buildings of the city far below stand out in the 
light of the sinking sun, with sudden sharp 
lines, as long-forgotten things start up in the 
mind of one dying. Why were my thoughts 
all of death.? Then a line of phantoms of 
silent tunes, long since sung here, passed by 
my ears. 

I thought of the surprise and dislike in that 
woman’s face the night before, and of what 
slight ground for jealousy she had, when he 
and I sat in such silence, — but recalling his 


ti)c JlDeair JUeair?'’ 


313 


speaking eyes, my heart’s quickened beating, 
and the flushes I felt mount my cheeks, I knew 
she had good cause. 

I was vexed at myself, both for being here 
almost against my will, and for a nervous fear 
which had come over me when once inside 
the house. I would not yield to it. There 
was a scrap of paper on the table. I drew a 
pencil from my pocket, and tried to forget by 
writing about 

THE GHOST OF YESTERDAY. 

Faint in the cloudless sky yet shows 
The last night’s moon, whose phantom white 

Has haunted dawn’s pale-blue and rose 
With thrilling gleam of lost delight, 

And lingers through the blaze of noon, 

Like Banquo’s ghost at Macbeth’s feast. 

Avaunt, O Spectre whose weird rune 
Appears to me when thought of least ! 

Though clouds from out life’s sky seem furled 
By dazzling bliss, to me is clear — 

Far off and dreamlike — my own world 
Burnt out, my yesterday thus here ! 

A long-drawn sigh, which sounded close by 
me, made me look up. Bravely as 1 had tried 
to think only of the words I wrote, I was 
startled. My dog crouched at my feet and 


tl)e JDeab IHeab?’" 


314 


barked. Had I left the front door on the latch ? 
I rushed to see. Turning in the hall with the 
feeling of being watched, I saw a woman’s 
head peering round a distant door. There was 
a familiar look about her. Thinking it must 
be one of the club, I started toward her, but 
she drew back and closed the door, which she 
held against me. 

Was she afraid of me.? I laughed, a little 
nervously, wrenched it open — but no one was 
in sight! 1 called, no answer, but, glancing 
up, saw the same head hanging over the ban- 
isters upstairs, and part of her dress. I was 
struck with something so wicked in her look 
that my little Spitz ran cowering and whining 
to the street-door. But, thinking I ought to 
explain my presence there, I went upstairs. 
To my surprise, the woman, without waiting 
for me, passed down the long hall and turned 
a corner. 

I hurried after, thinking I might have fright- 
ened her, if she were a nervous member, and, 
in my haste, nearly fell through to the lower 
story, for at the turning yawned an opening 
where stairs had been taken down. My dress 
caught on a nail in the floor, and held me back 
just in time. As I freed my skirt, I saw that 
from the hall-window, just beyond the pitfall, 


tlje tBcah 


315 


my house could be seen better than from 
downstairs. A smothered chuckle, followed 
by a cry of rage, made me look down. The 
woman was watching me from below. There 
must be some other flight, I thought, yet found 
none, and went to the lower room, but she had 
hidden. 

My verses, dropped as I ran out, were torn 
into shreds, and strewed on the floor. Think- 
ing it was one of my dog’s tricks, I felt I ought 
not to have brought him, that I must wait and 
excuse myself to her. I turned to look for 
him. What was this fluffy mass by the hall- 
door } Not my gay little comrade ? This poor 
creature in spasms ! Some evil power was at 
work here. Even that cruel-faced woman 
would be welcome company. 1 called. No 
reply. I tried to open the outer door, but it 
seemed barred by the rusty, large lock, to 
which there was no key. 

I strove to be brave. I went through the 
lower part. The back door was fast. I 
thought she must have fled that way. It 
was awful to be alone there ! I saw nothing 
strange, but felt as if dogged, doors opening 
behind me as soon as I closed them. I tried 
to think it was caused by the jar of my steps 
and the uneven flooring, but I felt the Bible 


3i6 


t\)c HrJeair JUeab?’’ 


was right to forbid the calling of spirits. Had 
not the Ghost Club brought all this horror 
upon me? It made no odds that they had 
been searching to prove there was no such 
thing. There was the ugly story of the 
hanged man, whose body was dissected and 
his skull ground to dust ; yet in the night the 
bits were seen to join, one by one, till the 
man was whole, and went out of the door. 

1 went back to the front room. Trying to 
forget my fears, I raised the gauze screen from 
the portrait over the mantel. It was not unlike 
the face of the strange woman ! In my vexa- 
tion toward her, I flung the veil against it 
again. The next instant, my elbows were 
fiercely gripped from behind. I was rushed 
swiftly toward the window I had opened when 
I first came in. My heart nearly stopped 
beating. Years of torture seemed crowded into 
that one moment. 1 was to be thrown out, to 
fall from that great height to the street. I 
shrieked in hopeless terror. I was suddenly 
cast on the floor, and, when I could look round, 
I saw that woman near the door, with her hard 
face turned as if to listen. 

Some one was on the steps. She glided out, 
and was upstairs, as the front door, forced by 
stronger hand than mine, opened, and, to my 


t\)c SDeair JUealr?’’ 


317 


deep relief and joy, the pale young man came 
in. Braced by the relief of his coming, then I 
could talk to him. He only nodded once in a 
while, but his eyes again held mine. To my 
questions about the woman, he shook his head, 
and seemed surprised when I said, *‘She was 
here last night.” 

So she had gone when he went out. I did 
not wonder she was jealous, as I stood there, 
hardly conscious of anything but the charm of 
his presence, and the scent of the bit of breath- 
of-heaven and blood-red pink he wore. And 
he — he kept the club rule of silence. But I 
thought I knew what he was thinking. I had 
not slept since I had last seen him. I passed 
the night watching, as I lay in bed, the old 
house — looming dim and large against the 
starry sky, — or, half-dozing, dreamed of flitting 
lights in the windows and echoing strains of 
music. 

I had not slept for thinking of Aim. Fancy- 
ing what bliss his kisses might be, waked me 
as fully as a real draught of wine. Heaven 
help me! And he knew it — he knew it; his 
eyes told me that. 

Those wonderful eyes! They seemed so 
near and dear a part of myself, that I forgot we 
were, as the world goes, strangers. Surely we 


318 


t\)c JBeab?” 


had known each other for eternities. I forgot 
that it was not a woman’s part to woo. I 
thought only of my love — my love, fierce as 
the wind, resistless as the sea, wide-spreading 
as the sky! I lost my senses. 

‘‘Where have you been all these years?” 
I cried. “We must have known each other 
before, for I love you, I love you, and it is no 
new feeling. My life has been a dream, a 
nightmare — at last I am awake! Do not 
leave me again, for I could not bear it. 
Stay! Stay!” 

“Oh, if it might only be ! ” he murmured. 

He came nearer, bent over as if to kiss me, 
when a white hand was laid on his shoulder. 
He turned in amazement. She stood beside 
him. 

he groaned, with a gesture of de- 
spair, and reeled back. He grew, if possible, 
more bloodless than ever. 1 could see him 
tremble. Dismay and dread in his face, and 
a hunted look came into his eyes. 

With a look of triumph at me, she beckoned 
him. Making a motion toward me, as of 
mingled farewell and warning, he slowly went 
after her, though often turning to look back. 
I followed. They passed along the hall, where 
my dog lay dead, out of the front door, and 











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tl)e SHeair lUeab?'’ 


319 


slowly down the long steps. At each landing 
he stopped and gazed back, then followed her 
into the dusk through which the members of 
the club were toiling up — among them Mr. 

H , with a lighted lantern. They paid no 

heed to the figures going down, and were sur- 
prised at my wild agitation. 

** Look ! Look ! I cried to Mr. H . 

‘‘Why! Your eyes have been answered 1 
he muttered, staring at me. 

“What is it?’' “Where?” “When?” 
“What happened?” “What’s the matter, 
H ?” urged the club. 

“Let us get away from this house!” he 
cried, looking uneasily behind him, and sign- 
ing to the doubter to lock the door. His hand 
trembled so that the lantern shook, as he said: 

“I came over, in case any of you were 
here, to warn you. I have just heard Miss 

Edith L , who lived here, died in Paris last 

night.” 

“Last night! — at ten minutes of twelve 
o’clock?” I gasped, suddenly faint. 

“ Well — ,” he thought a moment, “ yes — 
ten minutes past nine there would just make 
it — how did you know of it?” 

“ Tall, — light eyes, — a set, stern face — not 
without malice?” I stammered. 


320 


t\)c lUeab?” 


I thought you never saw her?” he said. 

** Tall, — dark, — with a face like an antique 
bust, — divine eyes?” I went on. 

‘‘ Then you had seen him,” said he. Struck 
by a sudden thought, he added: ‘‘Do you 
mean — can it be that you — how — where?” 

I caught his arm. “See there!” I cried, 
pointing where the two forms — one looking 
up over his shoulder — had paused on the 
lowest landing, but now moved on. Could it 
be that my touch made him see as I did ? 

“My God!” he cried, his nerveless hand 
dropping the lantern. “Then I was too late ! ” 

I sank, limp and helpless, on the top stair. 
The glare of the lantern on the club’s eager 
faces round me, with their various looks of 
wonder, doubt, content, fear, and pity; the 
jeering sound of the fog-horn; the shock of 
such an end to my romance ; a keen sense of 
life’s “raptures and desolations,” — all made 
me hysterical, as I burst forth : 

“You — you think ?” 

“I knowy'^ he answered, with awe-struck 
face, white to the very lips that could scarcely 
say the words, ^^you have seen the ghosts!” 



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